


seems like all i really was doing was waiting for you

by indie_poppies



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1950s, Child Abuse, F/M, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Slow Burn, Soul Mate AU, and john is also kind of an arsehole, i felt bad not having ringo so i reworked the timeline just for him lmao, i follow the timeline up until april 1960, john is a love sick puppy, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-04-20 16:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14265429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie_poppies/pseuds/indie_poppies
Summary: John’s not sure that he really believes all this shit - all this emphasis placed on finding the person who matches the mark you're given, on finding the supposed missing piece to you, the other half of your soul.And then he meets Paul.





	1. though we're malleable beings, not enough it seems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh i haven't wrote a fanfic since 2014 and i'm a lil rusty but i can't stop thinking about how paul and john are definitely soul mates AND SO this little nightmare spawned itself in the inner depths of my mind.
> 
> set in the 1950s, i try (and mostly fail) to follow the timeline closely whilst also keeping it with an original spin to it too! so there's definitely things that are wrong and definitely things that didn't happen being thrown in there!  
> okay enjoy!!!!!
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'malleable beings' by the paper kites

“Did it hurt?”

John’s grip on his forearm is tight, his long fingers grasping the skin so hard it’s definitely going to leave a faint mark, but he can’t think about that right now. He’s not wearing his glasses, he can’t really tell what it says. He blinks a few times, his sight blurry as he attempts to focus his view like a camera lens. When he adjusts his arm so that it is an appropriate distance from his eyes to finally be able to make out what’s there, he frowns.

The words _Nerk Twin_ are etched into his skin, the ink a solid black and the handwriting much neater than his own messy scrawl. He shakes his head slowly in response to the question.

“Nah...Didn’t feel a thing,” he says, his voice quiet as he continues to inspect the mark. His frown deepens the longer he tries to make an understanding of the nonsensical words that would plague him for the rest of his life.

Not to alarm himself, but literally every person he meets for the rest of his life is going to judge him off his mark. And his mark definitely does not give a great first impression. But then, neither does John himself so maybe it isn’t so confusing after all that these words are laced into his body for eternity.

He hears a sudden laugh, tears his attention back to his friends who have crowded around him, eagerly awaiting the grand reveal of _John’s mark_  just a few minutes prior. It’s Pete, he realises, who is laughing. He looks at him, his eyes narrowed from both not being able to see and overall suspicion of what is going to fall from his friend’s mouth next.

“Some poor bird has got that on her. Nerk twin,” he snorts. The rest of the boys join in with a small chorus of laughter as they begin to lean away from John’s arm, the excitement over just as quickly as it was there.

“Some poor bird is John’s soul mate,” quips Eric, a smirk across his lips as the rest of the boys continue to mock John between themselves. John simply scowls in response.

“Or Piss off,” He retorts, putting his leather jacket back on and running his fingers gently over the material that touched his forearm, that touched _his mark_. The phrase seemed stupid and offensive and he dreads the moment he meets his other half, dreads the moment his other half receives the same two words on their skin and thinks ‘oh God, what an arse’ but John supposes if his mark wasn’t a little inappropriate and strange, then it wouldn’t be his.

“What will Mimi think when she sees _that_?” Pete says, prodding John’s arm with his finger. John thinks about saying something mean, but a grimace falls across his face.

He’s right. What would Mimi think? She’s been so excited for John to get his mark, so excited to see him finally find someone that will settle his constant chaos. When he turns up home and shows her the mess on his arm she’ll be so disappointed. John can see her face falling and hardening just as fast already, in that defensive guard it seems every person in his family has - himself especially.

“Can’t show her. S’pose I’m just gonna have to act like I haven’t got it yet,” John sighs, pulling his arm away from Pete’s prodding finger. It’s not ideal, but what Mimi doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Pete smirks again, shaking his head.

“There’s no way you’re gonna be able to hide that from her,” he states, prodding his finger against the spot once more. John curls his upper lip, yanking his arm away from the touch again.

“Would you pack it in?” he snaps. Pete simply rolls his eyes at John’s sudden outburst, the others ignoring it completely. He doesn’t push John’s buttons further though, deciding to drop the subject entirely.

Instead, he returns to where he was sat before John announced the arrival of his mark, crouches down and picks up his washboard with a smile breaking out across his face. His eyes meet John’s, a silent question lingering between them.

“Right, that’s enough pissing about now!” John exclaims in agreement with Pete, sitting back down on the floor and reaching out for his guitar. “Or else we won’t know what’s happening tomorrow,” he adds, looking around the room to ensure he has the eyes of all of his band mates on himself.

Clearly in agreement, each return to their previous position - instruments at the ready and determined expressions on their faces.

 

 

When he returns home that night, John tries his hardest to continue to act as he always does, but the small buzz of extra energy doesn’t go unnoticed by his aunt.

“What has you in such high spirits?” she asks, staring at the wall opposite her as she sits on the arm chair, the quiet murmur of classical music filling the otherwise silent room.

It’s a background noise that fills the living area almost constantly now. John supposes it must be comforting for Mimi - to hear some kind of noise when John is absent from the house other than her own breathing. The house always feels too quiet now, since George died.

John shrugs in response before realising she can’t see him. At his silence, she turns her head slightly so that he is in view.

“Dunno...Think I’m just-“

“You _don't know_ , John. Why do you have to speak so _common_?” She tuts, practically spitting out the word ‘common’ like it was some sort of disease. John sighs at her, making a point to fix his posture so that he is standing with his back straight and begins to clear his throat. Usually he’d put up a fight and be difficult for Mimi, but not even she could ruin his mood today.

“Sorry. _I don't know_ ,” he says, making a point to exaggerate his pronunciation so that he sounds stereotypically 'British', like the kind of voice in those big Hollywood movies. Mimi fights the smile breaking out on her face, but it comes through anyway. “I’m just excited to play tomorrow,” John finishes, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling fidgety all of a sudden. Just because he’s a master at the art of lying doesn’t mean he enjoys it any more than the next person.

Mimi turns her head fully now, so that she is facing him. She raises an eyebrow at John, but continues to smile nonetheless.

As he continues to scratch at the nape of his neck, he realises quickly that the arms on his jacket are beginning to travel further and further up until he can see a little piece of the writing poking out. Panicked, John shoves his arm back down to his side quickly. Mimi stares at him for a couple of seconds, the suspicion clear on her narrowed eyes as she stares him down. John feels like a child again, feels her scrutinising everything about him - didn’t she always? - as he attempts a nonchalant smile.

She hums in response, turning her head slightly away again and closing her eyes.

“Well then you best head off to bed. You don’t want to be worn down tomorrow, do you?” she says, her head leaning back into the chair as the music on the radio begins to pick up its pace slightly. John takes it as his cue to leave her alone now that she was satisfied he wasn’t misbehaving - for once.

“Right...Good night, Mimi,” he says quietly, retreating to the door way, lingering around the doorframe as he waits for her to respond.

“Good night, John,” she says softly, and though she isn’t one to show it John can still hear the affection in her voice. He smiles to himself and heads up the stairs slowly, listening to the sound of the radio growing more distant and muffled the closer he gets to his bedroom.

 

 

_Brown eyes._

 

_Are they brown? It feels like there’s a million different colours spanning from the iris to the pupil, but they’re definitely majority brown. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope._

_Long eyelashes, longer than he’s ever seen on any other girl, frame the set of brown eyes. The lashes are black, like little spider legs as they stray out unevenly._

_The eyes droop at the corners, but the person is smiling as he can clearly make out the wrinkles at the sides._

_It’s eerily silent and he can’t even tell if the other person is talking to him because he can’t see their mouth. All he can see are their big, beautiful eyes and-_

_They look to the side suddenly, pupils focusing on something else. John tries to follow the direction the eyes moved in but he can’t. He’s glued to his current spot, unable to do anything but blink._

_So he closes his eyes, let’s himself calm down for a moment, before opening them again. When he reopens them he’s alone._

_There is nothing in front of him but a white, glowing empty space. It hurts to stare, but there’s not much else he can do._

_There’s a sudden noise behind him and John can now feel somebody breathing down his neck, little breezes of blown air pricking at the skin on his neck._

_He swallows hard, tries to fight the building anxiety in his chest as his throat bobs._

_A female voice drifts into his ear, but it’s not from the side he’s being breathed on. It’s from the right._

_“What did they call themselves? Nerk twins?” the woman asks._

_Her voice is laced in gentle affection, fondness. It seems as if she’s watching John, but he can’t feel anybody close to him like he can on his left side, so he’s not sure. It’s a voice John doesn’t recognise at all._

_The breath on the left side of his neck huffs out, as if the other person is laughing but again, John can’t hear it._

_He tries to turn again, this time being allowed._

_He turns his head left, very slowly, as he feels the breathing on his neck grow more erratic and nervous the more he turns to face the person it belongs to._

_Only, when he turns his head fully - there’s nobody there. The breath on his neck is gone. He feels cold all of a sudden, a shiver splintering down his back and jolting him forward-_

 

  

John opens his eyes, frantically taking in his surroundings.

He relaxes himself quickly when he realises where he is - his bedroom. He pulls himself up to a sitting position, ignores the creaking in the mattress springs beneath him from wriggling in his bed and begins to rub at his eyes.

Brown. Green. Brown. Brown. Green. Brown.

The same ocean of shades from the set of eyes in his dream ripple across his vision and John retracts his hands quickly, his breath hitching in his throat. He stares down at his own hands, at his own fingers like they’ve just burned his eyelids when he catches his mark in the corner of his eye.

John simply stares down at it, his brow furrowing in concentration.

This whole soul mates thing...He’d never really dwelled that much on it. Everyone was always so wrapped up in the idea of finding the one person perfectly matched for them that they miss out on the opportunities to connect with other people. There were so many girls that John had been rejected by over the years. Always the same thing. “ _I can’t. What if we aren’t soul mates_?”

Of course, there were also plenty of girls that didn’t care about that kind of thing - who would happily meet him down the backstreets and alley ways and forests where they would both touch and feel their way to orgasms, but nothing more, no connection. There was nothing wrong with that, mind, but John wishes that he could get to know a person - really get to know them, regardless of whether or not they had a mark matching his own on their skin. It just seemed a little old fashioned to rely so heavily on the work of soul mates.

It’s not like they always worked - John was a living example of the fact marks don’t guarantee a perfect match. His own parents were marked for each other and proved to be a, for lack of better words, fucking mess for each other. They were so unhappy, so argumentative and toxic for each other and John was some sort of faulty byproduct of their own whirlwind of chaotic energy.

On the other side, Mimi and George were not marked for each other and John saw that they were practically perfect for each other. They were in love and they were so happy. They defied the supposed statistics of success, and the universe decided to repay them by unfairly ripping George from Mimi’s grasp before they got spend their forever together. Mimi had been so excited leading up to John getting his mark, saying how he’d find his soul mate and he’d experience a love that would be permanent for him, for once.

But how could she know that? She didn’t settle for her own soul mate - what if John’s soul mate did the same as Mimi? What if she settled for someone who didn’t share her mark, but was an infinite upgrade from John? He wouldn’t be surprised. He wasn’t easy to love and he knew that better than anybody. He barely even liked himself, let alone love himself.

Eyelids drooping more now that sleep was catching up with him, John traces his finger along the writing on his arm lazily, closing his eyes for a few seconds and listening to his own steady breathing.

He lies back down then, leans his head into the comfort of his pillow and buries his face into it. It takes him a little while to fall back to sleep, but he continues to see occasional flashes of those beautiful eyes again. When he wakes up, John can’t tell if he’s relieved or terrified when he thinks that those dreams could end up becoming a regular thing now.

 


	2. call them mothers eyes, home's a narrow space for me to find

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to be out of town until saturday so i thought i'd get another chapter up to cover my arse until i get home!  
> ALSO thank you all for the warm welcome! i'm glad people are already enjoying this, it means a lot when you leave kudos and comments<3
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'tenenbaum' by the paper kites.

He’s flipping a record from side A to side B, over and over, sprawled along the couch. He’s lay on his back, eyes closed as he listens to the current song his mother was in the process of dancing to. He feels content enough, but being around his mum always leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, knowing that he has to go back to his real home with Mimi each time their day together draws to a close. He’d give anything to be able to live in a real home with at least one of his real parents like his friends. God, they didn’t know how lucky they were.

“John...” Julia gasps.

A gust of a breeze washes over John, making him open his eyes to see she’s stood over him now. Her delicate fingers dance their way up John’s left arm slowly until they reach the mark on his forearm. John eyes her suspiciously for a second, but his narrowed eyes relax as she softly twists his arm so his mark is eligible for her to read. He knows she wouldn’t tell Mimi if he asked and if she had any reason to hesitate she’d understand why soon enough. Sooner than John had even thought, because her eyes are narrowing as she finishes the second word. She looks back up to his eyes, beaming a grin.

“When did this happen?” she asks, sitting herself down on the floor in front of John. She crosses her legs and pats out her skirt until it’s flat against her, so as not to reveal anything. John shrugs, attempting a casual, uncaring approach to the whole thing despite the rattling of his heart in his rib cage. He didn’t want to get too attached to the thought of a perfect person when they probably didn’t even exist.

“Just over a week ago now,” he states simply, placing the record down on his stomach and shifting himself so his head is turned to the side, facing his mum. She nods her head back at him, her gaze lingering on his marked arm. There’s a flash, a falter in her expression - disappointment? But over what? John’s brow pulls together as he wonders.

“Does...Mimi know?” she asks, her big blue eyes clouding with something. And there it is. Now he understands. Jealousy, probably, that Mimi may have seen her own son’s mark before she did. It wasn’t difficult to read a person exactly like himself. But then if she didn’t want to miss experiencing moments like this then perhaps she shouldn’t have left John to live with Mimi indefinitely all those years ago. He can feel irritation building up now, has a sudden urge to scratch his skin until it’s raw and painful out of annoyance. He resists, opting instead to reply to what his mum had asked.

“No. I don’t plan on telling her any time soon, either. Have you _seen_  the state of it?” John chuckles, ignores Julia releasing a breath in relief. He grimaces, shifting his head and looking back at the record on his stomach blankly. Sometimes he really wishes things weren’t so fucking complicated. Sometimes he wishes he had a normal life with two normal parents, not a widowed aunt who was keeping a brave face and a barely-there mother who always seemed one second away from bolting out of John’s life again.

“...Have you met them yet?” it was as if she always knew how to mess him up. She interrupted his train of thought so many times, whether it be by talking, existing, being in his memories, hearing stories from Mimi - she was always in his head and he hated it. It wasn’t fair that she was in his reach but still galaxies away all of the time. He keeps his eyes on the record still, a cold smile reaching his lips.

“No. She’ll probably hate me anyway if her first impression of me is _that_ ,” he chuckles again, the humour void from his laugh completely. Julia shakes her head slowly, but John can’t see it.

“Oh, John...anyone would be lucky to have you...” she trails off, placing a gentle, warm hand on top of John’s own clammy, cold one. He snaps his head to meet her eyes then, his own hazel ones darkened as his jaw sets. She leans back slightly, all too aware that they were so close to each other. She knows what’s coming.

“Like you and dad were?” he spits out.

Julia’s face falls and she recoils her hand so fast John isn’t sure if he made the moment of affection up completely.

“Sorry if I take your words of affection with a grain of salt,  _mummy_. It’s just, you seem to forget, not even _you_  wanted me,” John’s sat up now, the record slipping into his lap. He looks down at it, then throws it to the other side of the couch. It falls with a dull thud against the settee cushions.

Julia’s hands begin to shake, her mouth forming words that never leave her throat.

“That’s...That’s not fair...” she starts. John watches her tense as a low rumbling laugh escapes from his lips. He’s smiling menacingly, can see it reflected on the glass of the cabinet across from him. He balls his hands into fists, attempting to fight the rage building up quickly inside of him.

“Not fair?” he repeats, laughing again.

“Yeah, it must have been really hard for you. Fucking another man behind dad’s back, turning me away to Mimi the moment you get a new, better family to surround yourself with. Living just around the corner from me all of these years and not telling me. Whilst I couldn’t shake you out of my head no matter how much I tried...” the words are flying out of him, like he’s been possessed by his own anger. Julia continues to stare at him, the tears falling silently as she listens to him.

His knuckles are bunched so tight they’re going white, he’s digging his nails into his palms and it hurts, but not as much as this conversation does.

“You didn’t fucking care about me then, did you? So why do you pretend to now!” he shouts, the words flying out of his mouth before he had a moment to really process what he was saying to her. He couldn’t help it - he was so _angry_. He couldn’t believe she had the nerve to try and defend herself.

He realises then, that the music had stopped playing and only a soft static could be heard, the crackle of the record player breaking his trance. He was slowly pulling his demons back into his body when he hears the sniffles, hears Julia breathing like her lungs are full of water.

He hopes they are, hopes she drowns in her own guilt ridden sob fest and hopes he can watch it happen before his very eyes. Whether he means it or not he isn’t sure.

He looks at her with a piercing gaze, sees the tears streaming down her face as the black of her mascara smudges into her skin.

John softens, his hard exterior peeling off of him like chipped armour. He feels his own eyes sting, his lips wobbling as a strangled noise finds its way off of his tongue. Julia is staring at him, her big blue eyes on the cusp of letting more tears fall. She opens her mouth again, but is cut off by John.

“If my own mum can’t even love me, how can I expect anybody else to?” his voice is barely a whisper.

He wraps his arms around his stomach, lurches forward and closes his eyes tightly to try and stop the tears. His head falls, his quiff drooping down with him as he lets out a shaky breath. He’s really crying now, pathetic sobs leaving his body shaking every time he breathes out. The noise of himself crying is knocking him sick with embarrassment but he can’t bring himself to stop.

He feels Julia reach out, place a hand on his knee but he shoves her off him. She lets out a sob of her own, tries again but John is harsher this time.

“Fuck off!” he shouts, jumping to his feet and grabbing his leather jacket. He bunches it up in his hand, wipes furiously at his tears with his balled fists and heads for the door.

Julia is hot on his heels, calling his name out desperately between sobs but he doesn’t listen.

He flings open the door and slams it shut behind him, begins running down the street to escape her as his breath hitches and catches, but at least now he isn’t crying.

 

 

His face feels sticky and clammy, the burning of his cheeks growing fainter now that he was managing to really calm down. He leans back, falling into the grass as the sun shines onto his face. He feels numb, but the warmth of the sun on his skin helps to ease the nothingness he’s experiencing. His jacket is bunched up, providing a makeshift pillow as he feels blades of grass tickle at his exposed arms. His lips part as he begins pulling the cigarette away from his mouth slowly. He breathes out the smoke, letting the stinging sensation in the back of his throat ground him.

Things had spiraled so fast in such little time and John knew it was his own fault. He hadn’t meant to explode all of his pent up resentment onto Julia like that but it was just so hard to pretend everything was fine all of the time when to John it was always clear that things definitely were not fine. It was as if this was just going to be his life from now on, and he was just going to have to accept that this is how it was - awkward and dysfunctional and full of so much uncertainty constantly.

The music provided a great outlet, a great distraction but...

He groans aloud, bringing his free hand up to drag his fingers down his face in frustrated exhaustion.

All the crying had wiped him out, but he couldn’t go home to Mimi until his face wasn’t so red and blotchy any more. He didn’t want her to catch wind of the argument. She meant well, however John can already hear the ' _I told you this whole thing was a bad idea_ ' lecture from her. The worst part was, John would agree with her if she gave him that speech today. His mother really didn’t care about him, probably just allowed him back into her life out of pity or a feeling of obligation. One thing is for certain - it was clear she didn’t care about him as much as he cared about her. And that’s what made it hurt more.

His throat felt incredibly tight all of a sudden and John swallows to try and relax the building hysteria that was practically begging to burst out of him. He shook his head to himself, not willing himself to cry again. Mimi had always said it wasn’t right for men to cry, and especially not in public. He wasn’t strictly ‘in public’ - the field he was currently residing in was empty as usual, but still. The point stands. As John frowns down at his cigarette, lobbing it randomly into the grass, he let himself dwell on his previous thought a little longer now that he felt stable enough to not burst into tears like he had wanted to only a few moments prior.

It felt like, no matter what, John always cared more about other people than they did him.

And it was hard to love so intensely every person that swayed in and out of his life, one foot in the door and the other already lifted, ready to fire themselves as far away from him as possible like little bullets escaping the barrel of a gun. John’s the trigger.

His previous words to his mother repeated in his head, scratching their physical existence into a visual wall inside his mind.

_If my own mum can’t even love me, how can I expect anybody else to?_

His mum was supposed to the one person who would always love him unconditionally, a safety blanket of security and warmth and genuine, unwavering love. And he didn’t even have that.

The closest thing he had to that was Mimi, and whilst he knew she loved him he wished she’d show it more. But he knew it wasn’t her job, she was not obliged to do anything that resembled maternity because she wasn’t his real mother. A lot of the time John wished that she was.

“You alright down there, son?” a voice spoke carefully. John leaned back up onto his elbows, saw a older man with a dog staring down at him concerned. John sighs.

“Rough day. Needed to get out,” he answers simply. The man nods his head once, tugs on his dog’s lead and begins to walk away.

It was as if the encounter phased him back into reality, into the real world.

There was a breeze picking up and it was making the hair on his arms prickle on their ends. He should be getting back to Mimi now, probably.

 

   
John’s hands are stinging, the skin on his finger tips have gone red and extra sensitive with him playing so roughly for the last few hours. He hopes the callouses will build soon because he’s not quite sure how much longer he can put up with this pain.

It had been a typical performance for The Quarreymen - a tiny crowd consisting mostly of their own friends and their friends, but there’s one person John was hoping to impress more than anybody else tonight.

It was hard for him to concentrate properly, though.

The argument with his mum only a few days prior kept repeating in his head - he had meant what he said, that’s for sure, but he still felt incredibly guilty for the way he spoke to her. On the other hand, he refused to swallow his pride for a woman that made him sink further and further with her neglect over the years. If she wanted things to be better, she should make the first move. John was done trying to make sense of her.

Visibly shaking the thought out of his head, he looks expectantly at the person across the table from him.

“Yeah, it was good. I liked it,” Ivan nods his head cooly, smiling across the table at John. John nods his head back in response, lifting his pint up to his lips and taking a few mouthfuls. When he lowers his glass he licks his lips and nods again.

“Would you then?” he asks. “It’s just...not _everyone_  is committed,” he adds, making a point to glare at Bill as his eyes sweep the table of his friends. Bill tuts, throwing his hands up in the air in both defense and exasperation.

“Look John, it’s not my fault! I have-“

“Love to,” Ivan interrupts, his smile softening as his eyes meet John’s. John feels himself visibly relax - that’s one less thing for him to worry about. He trusts Ivan to be reliable, to pull through when he’s needed. He lifts his glass up to his mouth again, only to stop it at his lips as Ivan begins talking again.

“I have a mate. He’d be good, y’know? Proper loves guitar. Maybe I could bring him next week?” he suggests, leaning closer to John across the table so that he could be heard better. It’s a rowdy pub, but they get served and that’s what really matters.

John considers it for a moment or two; do they really need more people? Admittedly, Ivan wasn’t really selling this mate of his, whoever they were, but John guesses if everyone is going to start bunking off and not taking the band seriously he might as well line up a few extra hands to step in when he needs them. Sometimes it felt as though he was the only person who took the whole thing seriously, who had faith that they had the potential to be more than just a small time band caught up in the dying skiffle movement.

“Alright. Tell him to bring his guitar, too. He can have an audition,” John says playfully, wriggling his thick brows and throwing his head back to drink the rest of his beer. Ivan laughs a little - forced. It’s clear he’s taken some kind of offence to the statement. John doesn’t really care - this mate of Ivan’s probably won’t end up playing for them anyway.

Whether that’s actually John or the alcohol running through his system talking, he’s not so sure.

“Nice one. I’ll let Paul know when I see him tomorrow, then,” Ivan says. John opens his mouth to say something else, but there’s a sudden interruption.

It’s the two men from behind the bar who have made their way to the table. They lean forward suddenly, one of the men slamming his large hands on the wooden table. A few of the boys jump in their seats, but John keeps himself calm, only widening his eyes for a few seconds before relaxing again.

He looks up at the men expectantly.

“How old did you say you were again?” one of them asks, a deep frown on his face as he leers over John’s sitting figure.

John breathes out, a strangled noise in his throat clawing its way out of his mouth.

“Bloody hell lads, is that the time? Better be getting off-“ John stands quickly, the rest of the boys following suit. He glances to Ivan, who is already backing away from the table slowly and towards the door. Pete follows John’s gaze, beginning to do the same thing as Ivan. One by one, the rest of the boys begin to slowly back away from the confrontation.

Except for John, of course - why was he always the one to get in shit?

“It’s just we forgot how old you are, son,” the man states, placing a firm hand on John’s shoulder to ensure he can’t escape. John sighs, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

When he opens them again all of his friends are nowhere to be seen.

Of course, it’s not them that they want anyway. John is the one that’s been buying for everybody all night.

“So next time you come in here I suggest you bring something that can prove your age. Alright?” his tone is firm, he prods John’s shoulder with a strong finger and sends him back a little bit. John curls his lip, opens his mouth for a smart response that will definitely get him socked, but the man pats his back, sends him tumbling forwards as he briefly struggles to gain balance again.

“Smarmy bastard...” John mutters under his breath as he does a walk of shame to the front door.

 

  
His friends are stood in the doorway, biting back laughter at the sight of their leader’s flushed cheeks. John lifts his hands, straightening out the sides of his quiff as he attempts to calm his embarrassment.

“We’re running out of pubs that actually serve us,” Ivan smirks, bumping his shoulder playfully against John’s.

As the group set off walking, John let’s out a little snort. He walks in step with Ivan, watching as his group tumble down the street in a clump of wild, loud conversations and excited laughter.

He thinks, maybe he can survive everything else going on around him as long as he has his band and his friends to pull him out of the mud each time he sinks into it, whether they know he’s sinking or not.


	3. oh lover i'm still a stranger to you so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so so so much for continuing to support the fic, it means so much to me and i'm so incredibly thankful and grateful<33  
> in other news....its here....the boys finally meet...i hope no one is left disappointed!!
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'turns within me, turns without me' by the paper kites

  
Things weren’t going _awful_.

They definitely should have been - John doesn’t even know the words to the current, and final, song they are performing - ‘ _Come Go With Me_ ’. It had only just come out recently, so recent that he didn’t have time to learn all of the words properly so some of the verses were...improvised, to say the least. He was definitely making some of it up as he went along, and he could tell that it isn’t going completely unnoticed by the whole crowd if some of the confused looks by a few audience members are anything to go by.

Some of the band are a little off-key and out of time with each other, but the crowd are having fun and the fete is full of people who seemed actually excited to hear something different, something more daring rather than the usual skiffle that was in town constantly now, as John always attempted to push the boundaries to sound a little edgier than the other groups in town did. He was leaning a lot more towards rock and roll lately much to Mimi’s horror, so he found skiffle had begun to become increasingly boring in comparison.

John’s eyes rake the crowd as he shuffles his body along to the poorly timed beat, his head moving animatedly as he sings along, earning himself a variety of grins and smiles from various members of the audience. He breaks out into a smile when his eyes met Ivan’s, his friend giving a grin in response. John goes to focus his gaze somewhere else, but when his eyes fall onto the boy standing next to Ivan he struggles to tear them away again.

There was nothing exceptionally unusual about the boy - he looked pretty average in terms of how attractive he was, as average as Ivan or any other boy in the audience. He was wearing a white jacket, which made him stand out against the crowd of full-time teddy boys surrounding him. His hair wasn’t styled the same as the rest of the boys, either. It was much more relaxed as his brown fringe was swooped to the side rather than pushed up into a greasy quiff like John’s own hair. He can’t quite make out his face from all the way over there, but he definitely had some lingering puppy fat on his cheeks. This boy looked _young_ , younger than John and Ivan and the rest of their friends. He realises then that he had been staring too long. The boy gives him a quizzical look as he nods his head and taps his foot along to the beat of the song.

Feeling a flush creeping its way up his neck, John finally averts his gaze to his aunt Mimi - a safety blanket. His own mother was stood only a short distance from her, but she didn’t feel quite like home like Mimi did to him. Especially not after their last encounter. He was practically avoiding the woman.

Mimi is stood statically in a more open part of the field. There were very little people around her. She looks visibly awkward and is clearly struggling to enjoy the music John’s band were playing. She didn’t really _get it_ , the whole ‘I want to be a musician’ thing John was going through at the moment, but she had gone out of her way to support John over and over again throughout his recent musical journey, at first very reluctantly, and sometimes very begrudgingly - like when he told her he wanted to make rock and roll songs, just like Elvis Presley. _That_ had been an awkward and unpleasant conversation for the both of them. But, she supported him nonetheless and that’s what meant the most to him. He could feel the embarrassment wearing off his cheeks, watching as she began to smile in encouragement at him. Just the sight of her was able to put him at ease quickly. John wonders if that’s how his friends feel when they look at their own mothers - safe, warm, like nothing can get to them as long as they had her loving embrace to shield them. He supposes Mimi is more his mother than Julia is, especially lately.

His eyes dart momentarily to Julia, who is dancing like she did at her home, like she’s in her living room and there’s only her and John, like she had so many times before. It’s embarrassing, and he has to fight himself to not cringe at the sight of it. However, he admires her unwavering weirdness and carefree spirit, knows that’s where he gets his own daring and bold attitude from and he can’t help but let the small smile fall onto his lips as he watches her, his own mouth sloppy as he continues to improvise the lyrics. She’s grinning at him like he’s the source of the sunshine casting down on them, like he’s her muse. He’s still mad about what happened, still mad she hasn’t tried to contact him, but she’s his mum and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss popping ‘round to hers in the almost two weeks since the night they fought. John regains his focus on his performance.

This was their final song, and it was coming to a close quickly. When the group finishes the final note, John adjusts himself on the truck to help steady his feet, watching as the crowd clapped and roared in response to the music. Curious, he can’t help but find himself glancing at the boy stood beside Ivan again.

He‘s already staring at John, clapping enthusiastically back at him. A small flutter of pride shoots its way up John’s chest as he listens to the positive response from everybody, but it didn’t seem to matter so much to him what everybody else thought as he stares at the face of Ivan’s friend. He’s not sure why it means so much to him that he’s impressed, but he just kind of rolls with the feeling. John bows exaggeratedly in response to the positive reaction, gaining a few notes of laughter from the crowd.

He looks up from where his head is bowed slightly, through his eyelashes, eyes meeting the boy next to Ivan again. Feeling brave, running on the adrenaline of a positive response from a somewhat decent performance, John takes his chances with being playful. He winks at the boy.

Ivan’s friends eyes widen in response and he averts his gaze quickly. He tugs at Ivan’s arm, hand pulling at Ivan’s shirt as he begins to bury himself deeper within the crowd.

John can’t tell whether he’s satisfied or disappointed that he’s caused such a reaction.

 

  
“John?”

Ivan’s voice comes from the church door.

John sighs in frustration. They had been trying to set up for their performance for the past hour and they were currently struggling because John’s friends and more importantly, his band, were arseholes and they clearly didn’t care about the future of the band, not like John did, and he was finding it hard not to get extra snappy with them all when all they were doing was drink and piss about constantly. He wipes some of the sweat from his brow, takes another sip from his beer and turns to the church door to see Ivan half in the doorway. His vision is a little hazy from the tipsy feeling the alcohol is giving him, so he squints through his glasses like it makes a difference to his sight. Rescuing him from his moment of blunder, Eric makes a hand gesture, ushering their friend to enter the room.

John realises quickly that the boy from the concert was shuffling in shyly behind Ivan, and he feels the hot shame from the memory of their first encounter getting the better of him. Always one to make the best first impressions, John is.

He shrugs his leather jacket off his body like it’s a piece of skin, hot and sticky and burning from the heat - he had to keep it on throughout his performance so that Mimi wouldn’t be able to see his mark, but now he was too hot and being angry made him even hotter - and wipes at the sweat building at the nape of his neck.

In just a few short seconds Ivan and his friend have crossed the room and are in the center of the church hall, right in front of John. John looks down at his shoes awkwardly, not knowing whether to look this boy in the eyes again after what he did stood on that truck. He taps his toes together like a soldier as he waits for somebody else to say something first.

“This is Paul,” Ivan says finally. When John looks up he feels all of the air escape his lungs.

Those eyes.

Those kaleidoscope eyes from his dream are right in front of him, he knows it’s those eyes as the sun shines into the room, lighting up the brown of the boy’s iris’ and highlighting every other shade residing in it. His eyes are drooping at the corners and long dark eyelashes flutter against his lids every time that he blinks, nervous to be under John’s intense gaze. John’s lips part in shock, and he squints at this boy through his glasses because he’s actually wearing them for once and he can see these beautiful eyes that have haunted him every time he’s closed his own for weeks now. The haze from the alcohol running in his system seems to clear, and he finds himself in a sea of browns and greens.

They’re so close to each other John can hear the other boy breathing - erratic and nervous. And John _knows_  it’s the same breathing he felt on his neck in his dream, the same nervous hitches he could feel as he had turned his head, before they had disappeared. He’s sure of it.

He’s not crazy.

It _must_  be the person from his dream.

Suddenly it’s as if nobody else is in the room except for him and this boy. He can practically see everybody else phasing out of existence until the room consists of just them in a big empty hall. He remembers that Ivan had said something and his brain replays the last few minutes briefly until he’s caught up again, until he remembers what it was Ivan was going on about before he lost his mind.

“Paul...” he says, testing the name out on his own tongue. The boy - Paul, has a weak flush of pink across his cheeks which pigments, even more, when John says his name. He looks up at John through long bold eyelashes, fluttering them nervously. He looks like a girl, John can’t help but think. He was pretty, even with his chubby cheeks and short height.

There’s a noise, a creak as Ivan shifts his weight from one foot to the other and the floorboard beneath him creaks.

John feels himself zone back into reality then, watches as the walls around him stretch back to their full size, sees the way the rest of the boys were exchanging looks amongst themselves in confusion of what was actually happening, their figures being blinked back into existence. Sees Ivan stood next to Paul, staring at John like he’d gone absolutely mad. He thinks he might have.

John realises how close he is to the younger boy, realises how freaked out everybody is by his sudden intensity and fascination with this new person. He clears his throat, takes two steps back. And another.

Paul continues to look at him silently, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. John notes that his lips were significantly thicker than his own, his bottom lip in particular. Did he mention he was pretty?

He notices the strap that sticks out painfully obvious across Paul’s white jacket then, remembers why he’s even here in the first place. He didn’t expect him to, but the poor sod has brought his own guitar and everything, just as he had told Ivan to instruct him. John snorts, breaking out of his own cloud of soft, confusing feelings arising in his heart and his head for this new boy.

“Come for your audition then?” John laughs out, smiling smugly at the small chorus of giggles and snorts from behind him. Paul seems undeterred, he just stares back at John like he hasn’t even said anything, eyes half lidded, like he’s in his own mind rather than listening to what John has to say. His smile falters at that - he doesn’t like being ignored. So, he tries again.

“Well? Can you even play?” John asks, his voice sounding a little more condescending than he would have liked it to. He almost feels guilty for saying something considerably unwelcoming to the younger boy, but his own ego boost from his friends encouraging his behaviour is enough to make him forget the guilt easily.

He can feel everybody’s eyes on him, still. He feels like he’s being burned in a hundred different places on his skin, prickling heat that makes him feel uneasy the longer everybody stares and the longer Paul doesn’t say anything back to him. He wonders if his friends are still thinking about how weird he was being just a minute ago, wonders if they’re going to say anything about it later to him. Suddenly Paul starts moving, no longer a static image, as he traces his fingers along the strap, fingertips fumbling over the material as he squirms. He pulls the strap, rotating the guitar until it’s in his hands. Leftie, John notes to himself. He’s never seen anyone play the guitar left-handed before, and he thinks about making a biting remark about it.

But something shifts then - it’s like an air of confidence has bubbled itself around the younger boy and he looks at John suddenly, giving him the same intense focus he had just been victim to a few moments prior. His eyes fly back open and something softens in his eyes, something that makes John feel a lot more at ease than he did at the beginning of their conversation.

“Nah, I just like taking this about with me everywhere I go,” Paul states flatly, a hint of a smile ghosted along his lips. His voice is much less scouse than everybody else in the rooms is. He has a soft drawl to his words, puts a little more effort into the way he pronounces things unlike John, but his voice is in that state of almost being cracked, of tethering between a high pitch and a low pitch. It’s almost a comforting kind of voice, and John reckons that when it finally breaks he’ll sound sweet and smooth with his words, a real charmer.

There’s a beat of silence, Ivan visibly cringing at Paul’s remark.

When John turns behind him to meet his friend’s gazes, they’re all just as hesitant as Ivan is. It‘s often that somebody met John with such a daring attitude when they’re simply a stranger to him - he was usually only back and forth like that with his friends - and even more rare that they didn’t get socked for it, but this boy - Paul, he reminds himself again - was standing before him, unwavering spirit of confidence despite being surrounded by a group of older boys who were clearly trying to intimidate him and mock him, his eyes pooling with something remarkably warm that sparked John’s chest like igniting a flicker of a flame.

John smirks back at him, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He was willing to give it back as much as he was to take it, he was willing to actually challenge John and it was...endearing.

“How old are you?” John blurts out, crossing his arms over his chest.

Paul looks up from where he‘s adjusting his fingers on his guitar, those dark long eyelashes almost fanning his cheeks as he blinks again. He looks so pure, stood in his white jacket with the setting sun shining through the window and onto his chubby pale face. He notices the hesitation in Paul, wonders if he’s going to lie to him for a moment.

“I’m fifteen...” Paul trails off, voice small as he begins to bite his bottom lip and he continues to look at John. The elder of the two snorts. _Too young_ , he thinks. _Not a chance_ , he thinks.

He watches as Paul’s face falls at the sudden rejection, and that feeling of almost guilt starts creeping back into heart. He tries crushing it quickly, reminds himself this boy is just a stranger to him and that there are plenty more skiffle groups around town for Paul to join. Ivan steps in, begins to wave his hands at John in defense of his other friend.

“Just give him a chance. He’s really good, aren’t you Paul? Play something for ‘em, go on,” Ivan rushes out quickly, like he’s desperate to get Paul to impress the group. It works to an extent, as his words visibly reinstate a little bit of confidence in the younger boy who straightens himself out a little bit.

Paul continues to bite nervously at the skin on his bottom lip, looking from Ivan to John hopefully.

“Go on,” Ivan repeats, his voice soft and encouraging. Paul nods his head, a nervous tick to it that makes him struggle to reset his hands back into place on his guitar. John stares, unimpressed but still curious. He thought at the pub that they didn’t need another member for their band, still somewhat stood by it right now. But if Ivan was being so pushy about getting Paul to play John figures there must be a reason why. So, he humours him. John nods his head, watches as Paul smiles gratefully, nervously, at him and looks down from his guitar.

Paul sucks in a big breath, like his lungs are empty.

“ _Oh well, I’ve got a girl with a record machine..._ ” Paul’s fingers blend into the strings seamlessly, plucking perfectly along to every note as he sings. John is taken aback, his eyes widening as he watches in nothing short of awe. Paul’s voice was so soft and it sounded so _young_ , but there’s still an edge to it that helped him sound bold and unique, unlike any of the other lad's voices. John unfolds his crossed arms, shifting his weight as he turns slightly and catches Pete’s eye.

Pete is already staring at him, a smile on his face. He nods at John, and John nods back at him, a silent conversation unfolding quickly between the two. It wasn’t so much a written rule as it was that John’s left-hand man was Pete, so even though it was _John’s band_ , as he liked to remind them almost constantly, he still found himself confiding in Pete when it came to decisions for the whole group. When he turns to face Paul again, he sees that the boy is staring down at his fingers, unaware of the exchange that had just taken place as he lets himself get lost in the music. John simply listens then, let’s the small smile allow itself to stay planted on his lips as he watches Paul close his eyes and belt out lyrics with a fierce determination to prove himself to the group, to prove himself to John.

“... _Fifteenth floor, I’m ready to sag. Get to the top, I’m too tired to rock,_ ” Paul finishes, finally stops playing as he opens his eyes and instead holds onto the neck of his guitar with one hand, the other resting on the body. He glances up, his own moment of tranquility broken now that his performance had finished. He looks visibly nervous, licking his lips again.

John’s small smile turns into a lopsided grin as their eyes meet again.


	4. oh you and me, we're shifting eternally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like the shortest chapter i've wrote so far i think and i'm sorry about that also its really bad and i don't like this chapter that much  
> i didn't update this on tuesday like i planned but i'll be back on schedule next week and that chapter is a lil bit longer!! so i'm sorry!!!
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'a lesson from mr. gray' by the paper kites

It takes Paul four days before he finally agrees to join the band.

 

 

They’re supposed to be practicing, but instead they just met up, walked around for a while and now they’ve found themselves down at the chippy for a couple of bags of chips for the increasingly large group of lads.

Ivan and Paul are wolfing down their shared chips like they haven’t eaten a meal for months, the large cuts of potato being crushed under the weight of their fingers as they hold them too tight. They’d probably fall apart even if they weren’t holding them so rough, what with them being drowned in salt and vinegar. John can smell it from where he’s stood next to them. It brings up a bad taste in his mouth, but he tries to ignore it as he carries on smoking.

“Do you want any John?” Ivan asks, his mouth full. Little pieces of potato fly out of his mouth as he speaks. John grimaces at the sight.

“I’m alright,” he says simply, offering a curt smile. Ivan shrugs, let’s Paul finish off the rest as he moves to go and socialise with the other boys.

A silence falls between the remaining two as John continues to smoke and Paul licks the excess salt off of his fingers. He scrunches the bag up and begins to look around for a bin.

John takes the moment of Paul’s distracted state to sneak a look at him - something he’s been trying to be subtle about ever since the group met up half an hour ago. There’s not a particular reason he keeps trying to look at the younger boy, but he just knows his eyes move to the other’s figure like its second nature, and he finds himself being drawn to Paul every time he speaks or moves when they’re stood together in the group, and it would be weird if John didn’t happen to justify it as trying to get to know the band’s newest member in his head.

Paul stands on his tiptoes, craning his neck as he continues to survey the area. John fights to stifle a laugh, but a small huff of air escapes his lungs.

“Just chuck it on the floor,” smoke blows out of his mouth as he speaks. He watches Paul watch it for a moment, then watches Paul furrow his brow. He looks sort of like a determined, adorable puppy, not a maturing teenage boy.

“I don’t want to do that...Is there no bins around?” Paul asks, those god damn eyes focused entirely on John, a little hopeful look on his face.

A loud laugh, Bill’s, John recognises without having to look, bellows from just a little further up the street from John and Paul. They should probably leave soon before they get done for loitering. They’re practically taking up the whole street in their big teddy boy gang - with the exception of Paul, who is still dressed in a way that almost blends in with the lot of lads - his oxfords, his drainies, but he had a habit of wearing tweed jackets, pressed long sleeve shirts, fancy jumpers and all with much less muted colours, like the usual black, than the rest of the boys. And his hair was still entirely different from everyone else. He looked like a kid that had been unknowingly roped into a street gang.

John sighs, crumbling to Paul like he's some kind of putty in the younger boy's hands. He taps his cigarette with his middle finger so some of the burnt end falls to the floor in a tiny dollop of ash.

“Round the corner,” he says in defeat as forces himself up from the wall he had been previously leaning on, places his cigarette in between lips as he lifts his hands to run his fingers through the sides of his hair and smooth it down. It was a habit that he couldn’t stop himself from doing, and it always led to his fingers getting greasy and tacky. “One second lads!” John shouts over the bustling conversation of the rest of his friends. Pete nods in acknowledgment to him, but they all jump back into their animated chatter fast.

Not waiting to see if Paul is following him, John begins walking to the end of the street, his cigarette back in his hand. He hears Paul’s footsteps coming up next to him, his feet having to move slightly quicker than John’s to be able to keep up properly due to the height difference. John glances down to Paul’s figure next to him. The boy is frowning again, but he isn’t sure why.

The silence isn’t so comfortable, he realises.

“We should have just stayed outside the chippy. Mind, it’s only here, innit? Not that far...” God, he’s awful at this small talk thing. Usually, if he was with anybody else he’d just let any old shit slip from his mouth and not care, but he already knows that Paul isn’t just anybody else. He’s got heaps of raw musical talent at just the age of fifteen, he’s better at guitar and even singing than John is by miles, he’s composed and mellow and John can just tell from the way he dresses, the way he talks, that he’s much more intelligent than John was at that age.

For John, that was almost two years ago now, and almost two years is a long time when you’re a teenager, a long time to develop and grow as a person at accelerated rates. Paul may have looked fifteen, but he sure didn’t act it. He was like a full blown adult in comparison to the rest of the lads - or maybe it was just the fact he was more innocent than the rest of them that made him seem so much more mature.

They were back outside of the chippy now, and John takes a moment to climb his way outside of his own mind and notice that Paul didn’t say a thing the entire walk there.

He looks down at his cigarette, sees most of it has burned away.

John drops it to the floor and crushes it under his own shoe. After Paul finishes throwing the greasy chip paper into the bin, he retrieves a handkerchief from the pocket of his drainpipes.

“God, how old are you?” John teases, a smirk growing on his face. Paul wipes his hands free of the chip grease, making a point not to react to the remark.

“I’d rather be an old man than have gammy fingers like yours,” he retorts, eyes glancing over John briefly as a smile creeps its way onto his face. John takes a moment to look down at his own hands, looks at the grease shining in the sunlight and pulls a face. It _was_  pretty disgusting.

There’s movement next to him, and Paul leans up and into John’s personal space to drop his handkerchief into his palm. John begins to wipe at his own hands until the grease has been absorbed. Despite the teasing, it was a pretty handy thing to carry around, especially for someone like John whose hands are always in his hair. Maybe he should actually take this idea on board. His hazel eyes flicker to the other boys, meeting Paul’s own brown ones.

They’re stood close enough that John can feel Paul’s breath faintly tickling his skin again, just like a few days ago when they first met, just like in that dream that feels so long ago now. There’s that bewildered look in Paul’s eyes again, but at least widening them has given him access to see every colour residing in Paul’s eyes in all of their beauty.

His fingers play with the handkerchief idly, trying to ease his sudden nerves at the situation. Paul’s eyes soften then, and he blinks a few times. He scoffs, catching John off guard.

“God, how old are you?” he mirrors the same tone as John did barely a minute ago, smirking as his eyes travel down to the handkerchief in John’s hand and back up to his eyes, but John is too nervous to playfully bite back.

Paul reaches his hand out, slowly and carefully until his own fingers are on the handkerchief too.

John keeps his gaze steady as he fights off a small flutter building in his chest as the distance between them continues to remain minuscule, as Paul’s fingers begin to lightly touch his own, curled into his palm. The graze of skin on skin sends jolts of electricity and warmth up John’s veins, starting in his wrist and spreading into his chest. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before and it’s scaring him how _intense_  it feels. Does Paul feel it too? There’s a beat where he thinks he might, a moment where his eyes cloud and the feigned innocent smirk on his face darkens a little bit, but just as quickly as it was there it’s gone. John can feel his neck and his cheeks burning, tries his best to calm his nerves but judging by the smug look on Paul’s face he’s sure it hasn’t worked. Paul brushes his fingers over the older boy’s once more, presses them together rather than letting them barely touch, and yanks his handkerchief away immediately after.

John tries not to feel disappointed by the lack of touch, but they’re still stood ridiculously close together, and he can still feel Paul’s warmth radiating onto him from this distance.

“Are yous done sucking each other off?”

The two jump at the sudden noise, then proceed to jump apart from each other.

There’s laughter, and John turns his head to see the rest of the lads watching them - they don’t mean it, can tell by the way they’re laughing. It was only a joke. John frowns anyway, reaches a hand out to shove Paul further away from him.

The younger of the two stumbles backward, clearly not ready to have his balance knocked. Paul frowns back at him, a clear confusion on his features.

“He wouldn’t stop trying to come on to me. I think Paul _fancies_  me,” John says slyly, leaving his side to go and join the rest of his friends at the end of the corner. Paul looks down at his handkerchief, then back at John, and shoves it into his back pocket without another word. When he looks back up and begins walking back to the group his face is oddly expressionless.

“I could do a lot better than you, mate,” Paul says casually as he passes by John to reach Ivan’s side. There’s laughter again. Pete starts walking then, taking the group back to his house so that they can finally get around to the practicing - the whole reason they had met up in the first place.

John runs forward to walk with Pete, and Paul stays back to walk with Ivan. They don’t say anything to each other the whole walk back to Pete’s house, but every so often John will turn his head, pretending to listen to what Bill or Eric or Pete or even Ivan had to say, but his eyes always find their way to Paul and they always catch Paul just as he darts his eyes from John to somebody else.


	5. shuffle your feet and you don’t want to read between the air of silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops a lil later than i planned my bad!  
> i don't quite like this chapter much either but trust me after this chapter it will pick back up again  
> -  
> chapter title comes from the song 'a silent cause' by the paper kites

Wrong chord. His fingers slip. He panics, tries to frantically throw himself back into time with everybody else.

“Or, fucking hell!” he shouts, bringing the rest of the music to a stop. Everybody is looking at him as he stares down at his own fingers like they’re little aliens - like he doesn’t recognise them.

John looks up then, sees all the different sets of eyes looking at him like they’re nervous for what he’s going to do or say next, like he’s a ticking time bomb and they’re all just part of the collateral damage that is John Lennon.

“I-I can’t fucking do this. I’m shite, and I’m never gonna get any fucking better and I might as well just quit now!” he drops his guitar to the floor, the loud clang as it hits the flooring makes some of the boys cringe, but John doesn’t care.

He buries his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees and groans to himself. Ivan looks around, uneasy, tries to see what the rest of the boys do but they all shake their heads and mutter amongst themselves about how ‘he does this all the time’ and ‘he’ll be fine in a minute’. The comments just make John even angrier, make him feel like a burden on his own friends as he wastes their time by sitting and sulking.

He stands up then, sees all of their eyes rise from his shoes to his head, as he declares he’s going to have a cigarette and regain his composure. He squeezes out of the tiny, cramped air raid shelter and stumbles onto the grass of Pete’s garden, slamming the door shut. It rattles, big tin can wobbling behind him as he walks away.

 

  
The air is hot and humid and he can feel his clothes practically sinking into his skin. He peels off his leather jacket, drops it to the floor next to him as he lights a match to his cigarette. He climbs the back fence, is sitting on top of it as he pulls the now lit cigarette to his mouth, flicking the match to the floor with his other hand.

There’s a noise behind him, the rattling of the door opening and then closing again.

“If you’ve come to have one of my fags, y’can get lost,” he says into the air, words falling out around the cigarette held between his teeth. He’s keeping his eyes forward but not really looking at anything in particular.

“I don’t smoke,” comes a soft, cautious voice.

 

Paul.

 

John feels his chest tighten, feels a wave of awkwardness settle over the two as their last conversation from just a little while ago by the chippy replays in John’s head, and maybe even Paul’s if his own lack of conversation is anything to go off.

There’s a lump of clothes and skin next to him that he can see out of the corner of his eye, and Paul has climbed the fence too to sit beside him. John chooses to ignore him, continues to take a long drag of his cigarette.

“You know...You’d probably enjoy guitar a lot more if you stopped playing banjo chords on it...” Paul says. If that was anybody else, John would have laid his balled fist into their face right that second. But when he turns his head to look at Paul, he sees there’s no arrogance or malice to his words. He’s just...being honest, John supposes. He raises an eyebrow in response.

“Oh right?” he replies, but he doesn’t really feel like talking about it. His pride and ego are fragile enough as it is - best not have it slogged back into the ground by a fifteen year old who's already better than him in every possible way.

It looks like Paul didn’t get the hint, because he nods his head at John and opens his mouth to continue to talk anyway.

“You’ll end up snapping the strings. You’re playing too rough,” John raises both his eyebrows for a second, a lazy sign of acknowledgment to what Paul has said, looking back in front of him at the row of houses across the street as he blows a string of smoke out from his lips.

He knows Paul is just trying to be nice, give him some advice, but he doesn’t need to feel insulted when he’s already pissed off - it’s not a good mix. Undeterred by his lack of interest in the conversation at hand, Paul tries again.

“I could help, y’know...Could teach you how to play properly, if you like,” he says, voice quiet and a little nervous sounding despite being so sure of himself only a few moments before. John hesitates for a second, lingers on the thought.

If he wanted to get this band somewhere he’d have to learn to play properly. And Paul is the best guitar player in the band, and the best guitar player John has seen in town. But the thought of having to spend time alone with Paul sets John a little on edge, makes him feel a little anxious. He shouldn’t be so scared, he thinks, shouldn’t be so worried. Paul is younger than him, but he still finds the idea daunting and he can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because he feels threatened by his talent.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, looking back to Paul. He blows the smoke out as he turns his head so that he doesn’t have to breathe it all out and into the younger boy’s face.

“G’wan then. You can come to mine sometime this week, if you’re free?” John asks, and Paul nods his head, a small smile on his face. John smiles back politely, the rain cloud on his head lifted a bit now, but he’s definitely not out of the woods yet.

He flicks his cigarette bum somewhere into the street, but makes no effort to move. “Thanks,” he adds, digging his hands into the top of the fence as he leans back slightly, legs dangling and hitting the wood as he fidgets.

Paul is tucked up tight, both of his arms gripping the top of the fence as he slouches forward. There’s a short gap of distance between the two boys.

Silence follows for a short while, and John is about ready to jump back down and go inside.

“Is that...your mark?” Paul asks hesitantly. John looks down at his outstretched arm, twists it so Paul can see it better.

“Yeah. Poetic, innit?” he jokes, though it’s clear he’s a little frustrated too. Paul lets out a short chuckle, his hand reaching towards John’s arm.

It stops, however, and Paul retracts it as his cheeks take colour. If a teasing remark crops up in John’s mind, he holds it back.

He instead rolls his head, tilts it to the side to get a better look at Paul.

His brow is furrowed together again, his eyes cloudy. John swallows, his throat feeling a little drier than it did a few seconds ago. He doesn’t understand what’s going through Paul’s head.

“I had a dream a while ago...” Paul starts, seemingly out of nowhere. John feels his skin prickle, his hairs stand on their ends just from the mention of dreams. He hasn’t had one like that since, but he still thinks about it often. Thinks about how weird it was that he had dreamed of Paul’s eyes before he even knew him. He nods his head encouragingly to highlight his interest in the topic. Paul swallows, still frowning as he looks everywhere but into John’s eyes.

“It was...It was all white, and someone was...Like, breathing down my neck? B-But it was silent,”

John feels the world around him shift, feels a lump of vomit begin to rise in his throat. But that was John’s dream. How could Paul have had that dream, too? Unless...His face pales.

“And then there was these words... _Fox and Hounds_ , it said. A...And then the words just kind of, like, just kind of melted off the wall and dripped down...” Paul uses one of his hands to make a squeezing motion, as if something was melting through his fingertips, and John just watches, his heart racing, anticipating the rest of the story.

“...I looked down at it, at the melted bit and it said... _Nerk Twins_...” he trails off, his voice losing itself.

A nervous giggle claws its way up Paul’s throat, bubbling out of his mouth unexpectedly. John knows it’s unexpected, because straight after he hears it he watches Paul bite down onto his bottom lip and begin nipping at the already tender skin residing there. John’s heart is thrashing around inside of his chest, he can feel his pulse pounding in his head and he’s so unbelievably confused.

“When do you turn sixteen?” John asks suddenly, the loud volume at which his words come out surprises even himself. Paul jumps slightly, but he relaxes again quickly as he regains his balance. He stops biting his lip.

“I’ve barely turned fifteen,” he jokes. John smiles back halfheartedly, but they both know what it means - they’d have to wait another year to see if what Paul is implying could be true. “But maybe...I dunno, maybe I’m there when you meet your soul mate...Does _Fox and Hounds_ mean anything to you?” Paul asks, watches as John shakes his head silently.

There’s a moment where Paul’s face hardens, where the usual innocent aura disappears and it’s unsettling him to watch it happen before his very eyes. It’s back just as quickly, and Paul simply blinks, his long thick eyelashes drawing John in like they’re some kind of trap.

He can’t look away.

“Wonder if that’s your mark...Maybe we meet them on the same night,” John adds, his own mind racing with ideas from this new information by Paul. The younger of the two simply shrugs, deciding to finally jump back down from the fence. John watches him, turns his head to get a look at him as he lands.

“Maybe...” Paul agrees finally, but he doesn’t add anything else. He looks up at John, points his thumb back towards the air raid shelter.

“You ready?” he asks.

John jumps back down too, picks his leather jacket up from its position on the grass and shoves it under his arm.

The two make their way back to Pete’s shelter silently, but there’s a new kind of energy lingering between them. John can’t place what it is or what it’s supposed to make him feel.

When they make their way back into the tiny, cramped room, John doesn’t feel angry anymore. Confused, maybe - but at least his attention isn’t on how shit he is at guitar anymore.

 

  
_It’s loud._

_John looks up, sees the words Fox and Houndsetched above the door._

_He’s stood inside of a pub, but all he can think about is the words right in front of him._

_It didn’t mean anything, did it? It’s because he’s been thinking about it a lot that day, and nothing else, right?_

_John lifts a hand, but his own perception is off, his limbs are numb, he feels like he has pins and needles and when he wriggles his hands in front of his face he can see every individual motion that takes place, like the frame rate of his own eyes has malfunctioned._

_Did he mention that it was loud?_

_He can hear thousands of erratic, excited screams in his ears and it hurts really bad. He feels like his head is going to explode, can feel the screams rattling his brain and making his ears feel fuzzy._

_He’s not as scared this time though, so that’s something._

_John whirls his head around and around and around slowly, watching the world in his eyes tick with every movement, tries to find where the noise is coming from but when he sweeps the room he can only see three people, situated in their own respective tables with pints and pints and pints of empty glasses residing on the table tops._

_The screaming continues, and John’s feeling dizzy as he plummets to the floor, watches the way his legs move so painfully slowly until they crash against the carpet finally. It should hurt, but he can’t feel his legs at all. It’s like he’s lugging around in a big lifeless lump of meat that he can barely control. He looks up from his newfound position on the worn carpet and clocks a poster hanging on the wall across from him._

_He squints his eyes, tries to see what is on it. He can’t make out much more than a few lazy scribbles - are they his own drawings? They look remarkably like his. A few lazy scribbles. The same neat handwriting that he recognises to match the one on his arm, and the words ‘Nerk Twins’ in big, thick letters._

_The screaming stops. John frowns, brings his hands up slowly, slowly, to cover his ears as the relief of the sudden silence makes him uncomfortable now that he’s so used to the screaming. He tries to will himself over by crawling but his numb limbs won’t budge. The pins and needles are creeping further in, making his skin feel like millions of pieces of static just rubbing together and it feels suddenly painful and raw on his flesh._

_It doesn’t mean anything though, does it?_

_It’s just his own imagination, the conversation from today, all working together to mush up some kind of coherent narrative for when he meets his soul mate._

 

 

That’s what John tells himself when his eyes snap open again, when his ears are still ringing from the sounds of the thousands of screams.

 

  
That’s what John tells himself when he feels disappointed that he doesn’t see Paul the next day, or the next day after that. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

  
John and Paul and their connected dreams, and the closeness of them at that chippy shop - none of it means a thing.


	6. you're a wonder, you're a muse, clarity in spoken truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had a lot of irl drama and madness happen this past week which is why it's taken until today to update, i'm so sorry!  
> i promise to be better again. but alas, a lengthier chapter to make up for the previous two shambles haha  
> okay finally and belated enjoy!!!
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'portrait 19' by the paper kites

John’s long limbs are spread down to the floor like gangly spider legs - thin and stretching far down to the carpet beneath his socked feet. He’s slumped his back into the settee as he’s nose deep in a book, mind wandering along with the words. He's truly invested.

It’s one of the few rare occasions when he’s wearing his glasses - which is mostly down to the fact Mimi is sat across from him in the armchair, cigarette in her hand and the radio playing the same classical music that loops around the living room like a broken record. John barely even hears it anymore, forgets its there half of the time.

“John...You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if you had gotten your mark?”

John licks his bottom lip nervously. He knew this would inevitably come up, but he never managed to plan what he’d say in his head by the time it got to it. He lowers his book from his eyes reluctantly, folding the top of the page and smiling at his aunt.

“Of course,” he says softly. She eyes him for a few moments, like she’s not sure if she trusts him enough to believe him. Then she takes a drag of her cigarette, taps it on the ashtray and relaxes in her seat.

“...Nothing to worry about. Plenty of people don’t get theirs at sixteen. I got mine just before I turned eighteen, mind,” she comments.

John’s not sure who she’s trying to reassure.

They sit in silence again after that, the music being the only noise. John looks down to his now closed book on his lap and thinks he might chance opening it and to carry on reading, but Mimi starts talking once more.

“Julia came over the other day - when you were out with your little friends. She said you two had been fighting again?” Mimi prods, her tone nonchalant but showing a kind of resilience - she won't drop this even if he begs her to. This isn’t something she’s going to let go of easily.

John stiffens, feels his guard go flying up in front of him and creating a barrier between himself and his aunt. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at his aunt with his jaw set like he’s ready to jump on the offense at any moment. Of course, she doesn’t react to his sudden change. She’s raised him, she knows his behaviours and attitudes like she knows her own. She simply tuts, crushing the end of her cigarette into the ashtray.

“I know it must be hard for you, but these living arrangements are not going to change anytime soon. Your mother cares for you deeply, John, and she’s here for you _now_. Surely, that’s what matters the most?” and John knows she’s trying to be kind, trying to help ease the tension and he also knows that deep down she’s right, but he doesn’t think his mother deserves this easy ride she has been given on the track to John’s heart after the damage she has instilled in him from such a young age.

“How can you possibly  _know_?” he chokes out instead of doing what he knows would be right. He knows it’s wrong to get defensive, knows he’s going to regret opening his mouth as soon as the words crash into the air but the temptation of giving in to his irrational, thoughtless tendencies is too strong for him to resist.

He sees the warning look in Mimi’s eyes then, sees the way her lips fall into a tight line.

John visibly deflates, defeated. He sinks lower into the settee as the feeling of guilt begins to creep its way into his chest.

“I just...She makes me feel so loved sometimes it’s like my heart could burst from it all,” he sighs, rubbing his hand over his eyes. The pressure is a little too strong and it hurts in the back of his eyeballs. “...Other times...it’s like she still doesn’t want me,” his voice has fallen much quieter, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed. He never talked about this kind of thing with Mimi before. Maybe he had when he was much younger, when he wore his heart and hurt on his sleeve for all of the world to stare at him pathetically, like he was an injured animal. But now he's not so careless. He can't afford to be.

But the confusion stirring in his blood and sending him weak and dizzy makes him feel like a child again, like a child who is sat between his parents, watching them scream at each other with words he doesn’t understand. It hurts.

When he finally stops rubbing his eyes, he realises that Mimi has crossed the room to sit next to him on the settee. She places a skinny, warm hand on his shoulder and squeezes. He breathes in shakily, trying to fight off the tears that Mimi loves to remind him are oh so painfully _unmanly._

“She has always wanted you,” she says softly - a tone of voice that John has heard only a handful of times. John swallows, his spit feeling thick and heavy in his own mouth and his throat bobs along with him.

Mimi lets out a small noise of sympathy and pulls him into her side, holding him close and occasionally squeezing his shoulder. John feels himself become grounded, ignores the small silent trickle of tears that begin to leak from his eyes.

He knows that he has to see his mum at some point soon and finally talk to her about what happened.

 

  
“E minor,” Paul says quietly, looks down at his fingers as he strums the chord. John is staring intently, trying to soak it all up. 'All' being both the guitar lessons, and Paul sitting on his bed in his bedroom despite the fact the two barely even knew each other.

His bedroom is a tip - doodles flung around, hanging on the walls and spread out on the floor in various different pages and notepads. Where there's not paper there are clothes that have been simply clumped up and discarded. He'd be ashamed if he knew Paul a bit better, but judging from the way Paul clambered over the mess and simply made himself at home on John's bed, he figures he doesn't really mind the mess.

He really appreciates the fact Paul is so willing to help him out and he’s trying his hardest not take this as an insult to his fragile, wavering pride. He narrows his eyes, can’t see a thing. Where were his glasses?

“C major. You don’t have to say major though, so it’s just C,” Paul continues, strums again and keeps his head locked downwards.

John is still squinting, fumbles in his pocket to retrieve his thick-rimmed square glasses. He looks down to put them on, and when he looks back up Paul is staring at him with a weird facial expression that John doesn’t think he understands the meaning of. He's got darker eyes than usual, and his lips are parted only slightly. Not that John was staring at his lips.

Paul places his hand across the strings, the note that was previously played coming to an abrupt end.

The two just stare, a little awkward and uncomfortable silence settling between the two almost strangers.

“You look like Buddy Holly,” Paul chuckles. John smiles back at him, appreciating the compliment. He flutters his eyelashes back at the younger boy, earning a little grin. Then Paul hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “Do you have to wear them all the time?” he inquires, eyes big and childlike with their curiosity. John nods his head.

“Am supposed to. Blind as a bat without them, actually,” he grins, adjusting their position on his nose by lowering them slightly down the bridge. Paul just smiles back at him, the look lingering as they fall back into a quietness. It’s as if he remembers then, why they’re even here.

Paul’s ears begin to pink and a small splatter of colour rises on his cheeks. He looks back down at his guitar.

“Uhh....yeah. This is,” he adjusts his hands again, strums out another chord. “G...” he trails off. John nods his head, adjusts himself to copy Paul’s position - it’s a little bit tricky considering they hold the guitar so differently to one another, but he manages after a few seconds of looking between his own fingers and Paul’s repeatedly. John strums, mirroring the noise that had fallen from Paul’s fingertips just a few moments before.

He looks up again, sees Paul staring at him but this time he’s smiling.

His eyes are soft and his side swept fringe is hanging down, tickling at his eye. The sun is shining through John’s bedroom window and sending rays across Paul in random bursts all over his body, illuminating him like he’s some ethereal being. John thinks he looks beautiful, quite frankly. If he was a photographer, he thinks it would make a good picture.

But the moment passes quickly, a series of dull thuds hitting the floor beneath their shoes.

Paul’s face falls and confusion settles in as he looks at John questioningly. In response, John buries his head in his hands, embarrassed.

“It’s Mimi...” he starts, groaning in frustration. “Just stay here a minute,” John places his guitar on the floor gently, pulls himself up and walks towards his bedroom door. He opens it, tumbles down the flight of stairs and into the living room to set his sights upon Mimi, stood with her arms folded over her chest and a broom tucked under her armpit.

“You’re too loud,”

John scoffs.

“We’ve played four notes!” he defends, watching as Mimi gives him that warning look again - he sees it so often that he thinks it’s the one look of hers that John is sure will be burned into his mind long after she passes this world.

“If you’re going to practice then do it somewhere I can’t hear you,” she says, tone final. John sighs, closes his eyes in irritation and breathes out.

“Like where?” he asks, tries his best to hide the budding anger building inside himself.

When he opens his eyes Mimi is staring at him. She shrugs in response.

“Quite frankly, John, I don’t care where you go. Just not inside,” and  _that's_ an idea.

John smiles, a devious twist of his mouth that makes Mimi roll her eyes. She knows he’s got something planned, but she doesn’t push so he presumes she probably doesn’t care enough to find out what that smile entails.

He turns on his heel then, leaves the living room in favor of retrieving Paul.

 

  
As he begins to climb the stairs he hears the soft melody of a guitar and an even softer voice trying to quietly sing under their breath. John continues climbing the flight of stairs as silently as he can so as not to cause any interruption.

When he reaches his bedroom door, he can see a slither of Paul’s face, Paul’s hands on his guitar through the crack and he can’t bring himself to do anything other than watch, captivated.

“ _I’m counting on you dear..._ ” Paul has his eyes closed as he sings, strums the guitar with such effortless ease John wonders just how many times he has been sat alone playing ‘I’m Counting on You’ to himself. He’s tapping his foot gently on the floor as he draws out playing, looping the same chords to blend into a steady rhythm in order to give himself extra time to play before he continues singing.

“ _From the dawn of each day..._ ” and he sings so well, so soft and quiet but still so beautifully and John feels himself being sucked in like Paul is a siren and he’s singing for John and John only. He wonders, as he tries to lean closer towards the door, tries to find a way to be closer without being spotted - when he’ll be pulled deep under under the water and drown, drown under the growing feeling of his heart racing inside of his chest at the sight of Paul, all soft and illuminated, holding onto his guitar and singing so lovely it makes John feel like he's just hearing music for the first time in his life. He doesn't even know Paul, but there's a sudden anxiety in the back of his mind that one day he may see this boy for the last time. That maybe that day could be soon. This isn’t like when he played for John in that church hall, it isn’t like the handfuls of group practice they’d attended together since Paul has joined the band. It’s so much more intimate - maybe it’s because they’re alone together - but then, Paul isn’t even aware he’s watching. He feels like he’s seeing a side of Paul that few witness. He thinks he’s alone and there’s not a worry in his mind as he sits playing in his solitude.

“ _To always come through dear..._ " John wants to lap up every second of this moment. He never wants to forget being lucky enough to see this happening before his very eyes. There’s a lump perched on his chest that makes him dizzy with confusion, the kind of butterflies he gets when he’s nervous or he sees a pretty girl building in his heart - but this feels so much more intense, so much more raw. It’s terrifying and unnerving but John will worry about it when he doesn’t have such a sight to behold that he might miss if he traps himself inside the depths of his mind. Elvis Presley has some real competition, he thinks.

John leans forward again, not realising until it’s too late that his forehead has bumped against the door and it creaks open a little more. Paul’s eyes fly open and the melody comes to a halt as he stares, like a wild animal caught in a trap, up at John.

John feels his own skin burning with such intensity he feels like he’s been set on fire. He knows his neck is red, his cheeks are red, his blotchy blush mirrored in Paul’s own cheeks, in Paul’s own neck.

He tries to think of something to say, something that would make him seem a lot less creepy but his throat has closed in on itself and turned its back on John in his moment of desperation. He wracks his brain, frantically scrambling to form a sentence - he can’t finish any.

“John!” comes an irritated voice from the bottom of the stairs. John jumps, remembering that he told Mimi they’d stop playing. Paul scrambles, clutching his guitar close to his chest. He can’t bring himself to look at John, but he knows he’s waiting for instructions.

“Mimi said we can’t stay in here...I thought we could just sit on the doorstep instead...” John suggests, his own voice sounding foreign to him in its hesitation. He feels unsure of everything. Paul nods his head curtly, reaches across to grab John’s guitar and his own and follows the eldest out of the room, down the stairs and to the front door in silence. As they pass Mimi she eyes them, frowning at the brash colours on their cheeks and the tension that hangs in the air between them like a heavyweight that neither is trying to shift.

 

  
John flies out of the front door first, gasps for fresh, cool air like his life depends on being able to inhale as much as he possibly can right that very moment. It feels better to take air into his lungs that aren’t contaminated with Paul and all of the weird uncertainty that comes with him. He drops to his bum on the porch, sits and waits for Paul to follow, which he does after opening the door.

Paul stretches John’s guitar out for him to take. The elder of the two reaches across to grab it, his fingers lazily graze against Paul’s by accident and there it is again - that surge of electricity that shoots through him, causing a sudden high and making his brain surge with a complex scribble of feelings and thoughts that he can’t decode even if he wanted to. Paul simply gapes at him, hesitant to move his hand away and hesitant to keep it in place. John bites back his nerves, forces a smile to try and ease the tension. It works, he thinks, because Paul seems to deflate and smile slightly back at him.

“I wanna be like Elvis,” John blurts out. He’s not sure why he felt the need to say that thought out loud, didn’t mean to, but Paul is the first person he’s seen besides the people within his group that knows how to play Elvis Presley, and Paul plays his music so well. He’s glad he did say it anyway because Paul’s smile reaches his eyes now. “Wanna be like Elvis but I think you’re...I think you can make a better Elvis than I ever could,” he says, his genuine words making Paul giggle. The younger of the two shakes his head between the bursts of joy trickling from his lips like little pieces of sunshine shining out from inside of him and onto John. The warmth he brings is welcoming and new and if John could bask up every drop he would. Paul wriggles his fingers from underneath John’s and wraps them back around his own guitar, fingers finding their way to the familiar grooves without Paul even having to look. John swallows the disappointment down at the loss of contact, focuses instead on Paul’s laugh, doesn’t realise it makes himself smile brighter just by hearing the noise.

“I don’t have the right image to be Elvis,” Paul shrugs, bashful. He lays his guitar down gently, like he already knows they’re going to be sucked into conversing for a while. John’s brow furrows at the comment, feeling a little bit lost by what Paul meant.

“Image?” he repeats, watching as Paul nods his head slightly. He glances to John, keeps his eyes fixed on the older of the two and John feels something click in his head then. His frown deepens. “You mean y’think I make a better Elvis ‘cos of how I look?” he asks, his voice the tiny amount guarded. Paul hesitates for a second, worried that he’s said something wrong, but nods anyway. John clucks his tongue, looks away from Paul for a moment until the words are spilling out of his mouth.

“I might have the looks, but I don’t come close to having your talent, son,” and it’s weird, that somebody like John can feel so small and insignificant next to somebody like Paul. He takes the risk, looks back to Paul and sees him positively beaming, his cheeks flushed again. John begins to wonder whether he’s ever seen Paul not blushing, but it’s a look that suits him anyway and it gives John the very selfish and dangerous knowledge that he can make the other boy embarrassed so incredibly easily. Paul shakes his head again, begins squirming in his seat on the floor next to John.

“Oh, I dunno about that....” Paul trails off like he’s waving the compliment out of existence, but he’s still smiling at the older boy. Then he stops suddenly, and John is worried that he’s done something wrong. Paul grows serious, his expression like stone as he bores his gaze deep into John. It’s freaking him out and now it’s John’s turn to squirm, but Paul’s eyes never waver.

“John, you’ve got lots of potential...All we gotta do is get it out in full...Really let you shine,” Paul says finally, his face softening as the compliment rolls off of his tongue. “...You’ll be just like Elvis,” he breathes out, his eyes shining brightly.

John’s breath hitches, feeling overwhelmed. Paul was so fucking nice, so genuinely kind to him and he didn’t even understand why. They barely even knew each other, but it was like they just had the same wavelength, the same ideas, and the same thoughts. It was so fucking weird but it felt so right to have Paul in his life already after such a short amount of time. John can't imagine not meeting him now, can’t imagine not accepting Ivan’s idea of bringing Paul along that day. And to think John almost turned him down before even letting him play. God, John was being kind of an arse to Paul and he just kept putting up with it and soldiering on, for reasons completely unknown to himself. Maybe he should finally take the hint, finally understand that Paul just really wanted to be his friend.

John leans forward suddenly, invading Paul’s personal space as their faces are barely centimeters apart. A wicked smile falls on John’s lips, and Paul subconsciously mirrors it back to him although hesitantly.

“ _We'll_  be just like Elvis, Paul,” he says, watches as Paul’s wicked smile breaks into a wicked grin. John places a hand on Paul’s shoulder, eccentric thoughts and budding dreams dancing in his mind of _JohnandPaul_ barreling their way into the charts, into the hearts of millions with Paul’s perfect plucking fingertips and John’s jolting poetic verses, mixing together to create the most unstoppable musical force the world has seen. John is practically giddy with the thought, his fingers brushing lightly, tracing Paul’s shoulder blade through his jumper. “We’re going to the top, you and me,” he says gently. Paul giggles in response, nods his head and John can feel the younger boy’s stray hairs tickling at his forehead. He reaches his hand out, taps his finger affectionately on the end of Paul’s little nose. “The toppermost of the poppermost!” John says, his voice mocking that of a ‘proper’ British accent. Paul giggles again, scrunches his eyes closed as the laugh bellows between them, his breath hitting John’s face and causing the elder of the two to continue to grin, stupid and happy and goofy.

“The toppermost of the poppermost, _Johnny,_ ” Paul says back softly, his eyes darkening as he flutters his eyelashes playfully. John licks his bottom lip, throat feeling dry for a moment. The way Paul says the nickname makes his stomach knot together in an all too familiar feeling of faint arousal, and he doesn’t know why. Plenty of people have called him 'Johnny' throughout his life. Why does it feel so different when Paul says it? He thinks that Paul knows what’s he's thinking though, if the teasing smirk he’s giving him is anything to go by. But he can’t think about that - his mind is still racing. All he can think about is _JohnandPaul_  and how a now unbreakable chain has bound itself around their wrists, tying them both together and he thinks the chain could be heavy, but he has Paul to help him balance out the weight of the crushing metal digging into their skin.

  
He continues to ride the high as he and Paul pick back up their guitars, as Paul teaches him how to actually play guitar chords, and even after Paul leaves that night to get the bus back home.

  
He continues to ride the high from that moment on, and he’s not sure that he ever truly stops.


	7. all the scrapes on our knees will tell you where we've been, where we have bled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy moly an update on schedule? who would have thought???  
> i'd like to give a huge thank you and shout out to abelard, whose comment on the previous chapter had me almost crying in my college toilets when i read it. your continued support and enthusiasm for this fic motivates me to keep writing and keep posting and your words are so incredibly kind and heartfelt. it means so much to me and i just want you to know how much i appreciate and look forward to your comments<33
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'woodland' by the paper kites

“What do you think, Paul?” Julia asks.

John watches as Paul looks up from under his eyelashes at his mother, his lips parted slightly as she brings him out of his own little world. He’s sat on one of the dining chairs by her kitchen table, fingers idly strumming on her banjo and playing little segments of melodies as the three catch up. John smiles softly at him, feels something faint tug inside of his chest as his eyes swoop across Paul's face - soft features, long eyelashes, and a dopey smile. He looks adorable. Julia shoots a glance at John, catches John’s gaze. His expression falters immediately as he tries to play it off cooly in front of his mother, heart picking up at the thought of her catching him staring at a _boy_. To what degree his nonchalance works he’s not entirely sure.

“Uhhh...I don’t know, to be honest...” Paul says quietly, cocking his head to the side and giving John a thoughtful look. His eyes then drop to John’s arm, to where his mark resides on his skin. “It’s a bit....” he struggles to find his words, thinking carefully as he contemplates his next sentence. “...Weird. I hope mine isn’t like that,” he jokes lightly, giving John a smirk. John mocks offense at his friend's comment, crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out at Paul playfully.

"You're calling me weird, son?" John asks, putting on a funny voice. Paul bites down on his bottom lip, tries to suppress his laughter but little hums of giggles fall between his lips anyway. He glances towards his mother again, doesn't miss the way she narrows her eyes momentarily as she looks between the two teenagers sitting at her table. She hums out quietly, like she's witnessing something she doesn't quite understand before her very eyes.

It's something that many people have been doing to John lately - whenever Paul is around it’s hard for him to concentrate on anybody else at all. It’s always them two laughing or talking quietly amongst themselves, like they are in their own little bubble and nothing can pop it or draw them out. It's the merging of two bodies, forming _JohnandPaul_  and shutting the rest of the world out whenever they orbit each other's atmospheres.

At least Julia is much more approving of their friendship. Mimi isn’t too fond of Paul, isn’t too fond of him being of a working-class background, despite the fact he’s better educated and better mannered in comparison to her own nephew. And John never asked to go to Paul’s - he didn’t talk about his home life much. It seemed that Julia’s house was the only family member’s home they were allowed to go to, and even then it wasn’t ideal. Sometimes he wishes he had already moved out so that Paul could be at his whenever he wanted and they could just play music and listen to music. He wouldn’t even have to go home at the end of the day, he could stay overnight if he wanted. John stirs the thought from his head and focuses on the conversation happening in front of him again.

“It’s not like it matters much, anyway,” John says finally, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to look away from both his mother and his friend. When there’s a silence that seems it’s not going to be filled, John decides to explain himself. The words feel almost too mean as they begin to scramble up his throat, and he already knows his next statement is going to cause some kind of a fuss. “It’s not like it’s real, is it? Soul mates...” John adds, his voice trailing off as he continues to refuse to look at the other two people in the room with him.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere surrounding them that makes John feel like there’s so much less air now. He can feel the tension grow between the three of them as they all hesitate to say something else after John’s controversial remark. He realises then that his hands have gone clammy.

“You don’t mean that,” Julia states simply, her voice cautiously casual. John narrows his eyes and looks at her over the top of his glasses, his brow knitting together as he frowns. A challenge.

“S’not,” he repeats, standing his ground firmly. He can feel a sense of sadistic satisfaction squirming under his skin at the sudden tension he’s managed to cause, at being the reason everything has turned on its head suddenly. If he has to deal with his own chaotic mind swimming through thoughts twenty-four seven, it seems only fair that sometimes other people are exposed to it too. Exposed to what it feels like to have nothing make sense.

“If they’re not real then how do you explain _that_?” Paul interrupts. His voice cuts through John and Julia, but he sounds just as unimpressed as the latter. John looks to him, sees him pointing at John’s arm. He rolls his eyes.

“But they don’t always work,” John points out, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. Paul’s positively scowling at him, and John can’t understand why he’s letting it get to him so much. Paul lets out a noise of irritation back at him, lowers his hands to stop pointing and instead rests his elbow on the kitchen table, lets his chin be held up by the palm of his hand.

“You can’t expect it to be right every time. That’s just idiotic. There are two point five billion people on the earth, John. You can’t expect all of them to have a perfect match,” and John hates the fact that Paul is so smug with his response, with his smug smile and his smug eyes darting to Julia, who basks up his smugness and intelligence like he’s her own son - has she ever looked at John that way? He doesn’t remember, if she has. John huffs, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. It just so happens that Paul is the only person he’d let himself lose to, but John Lennon seldom loses.

“But then if it’s not always going to work what’s the _point_  in them?” he asks. This argument is boring now and John’s starting to feel a bit irritated. It’s clear neither he nor Paul will budge their stances on the whole thing. “It didn’t work for my mum and dad. Look at me,” he gestures his hand at himself, ignores the way Paul glances nervously at Julia, ignores the way Julia stiffens next to him as he spits out a hollow smile. “What’s the point in them if all they do is fuck up perfectly good people and give them even more fucked up children to repeat the cycle of marks that match but souls that don’t?” he’s much calmer than he thought he would be externally, but on the inside his heart is hammering and he feels sick. Sick of himself, mostly, for being an outlier, a mistake, in the perfect system.

Julia sighs, loud and overbearing. She stands up from next to John and politely excuses herself from the conversation. As she leaves, John can’t help but get in one last remark at her expense.

“Or maybe being a fuck up is just a _Lennon_  thing,” he shrugs again, feels the painful twist of gross satisfaction in his stomach as his mother’s retreating footsteps hurry. The front door slams, bringing the reality of the whole conversation opportunity to finally catch up with John.

 

 

He's not as upset as he should be. He _knows_  he's being a dick to both his mum and Paul, but what else could he say? How was he supposed to believe in a system that, from his own experience, hadn't ever worked for the adults in his life? All that soul mates crap. That's all it was - crap.

Paul springs up then, walks towards John who lifts himself from his seat. Paul is seething, a scowl etched deep into his face and John thinks for a second that Paul might end up stuck like that if he doesn’t stop being so moody quickly. His thoughts are jolted, however, as Paul reaches out to him and shoves him harshly in his chest, making him stumble backward into the chair he was just sat in. John frowns back at him, recovers and responds by closing the distance between him and Paul, ready to hit him back.

He doesn’t, though.

He just stands, leering over the younger boy with a harsh frown. Paul stares back up at him, no sign of feeling intimidated as he mirrors John's deep frown.

“You’re a right prick,” Paul says quietly, his tone judging and harsh and it stings to hear somebody he considers to be his best friend view him so lowly. He doesn't show that it hurts, though. If he does then Paul will realise how vulnerable John can be. Instead, John just scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sorry?” he starts, his crossed arms tensing as his palms ball their way into fists. “You just don’t get what it’s like to not have a _real_ mum,” he’s speaking through the tight line his lips have fallen into, guarded. If he doesn’t show he’s upset then no one will know how much he really cares.

Paul just smiles, his face contorting into a painful twist of his lips that makes John feel uneasy. He’s not sure what he’s said that was so wrong, he just knows that it’s definitely struck a nerve. And usually John would feel some sick sense of pride upsetting somebody he cares about, letting himself get under their skin so intimately, but with Paul, all he feels is guilt and immediate regret. It’s too late to take it back now though, the words are hanging in the air between them as Paul just keeps that same smile plastered on his face.

“You have no idea how fucking lucky you are, John. You’re such a selfish bastard,” Paul shakes his head, still smiling that smile. He reaches forward again “I’d give,” he growls out, “ _Anything_ ,” he shoves his hand into John’s chest, “To talk to my mum again,” he says as John stumbles back again.

Only this time, John doesn’t try to square up to Paul. He blinks, once, twice, as Paul stands staring at him with cold eyes and hot blotches on his skin. He’s biting his bottom lip, clamping down so hard John can see where the irritated skin is starting to bleed. John softens, visibly deflating as it dawns on him just what Paul meant.

“...I...I didn’t know...” John murmurs, mind drawing blank. He feels so incredibly guilty, so incredibly selfish. He can’t help but stare at the younger boy as he bites back his tears. Paul’s hands are balled into fists as he continues to chew his bottom lip, tears lingering in his eyes and looking ready to spill at any moment. Paul takes a big, shaky breath and John watches the blotchy red patches on his face begin to fade, watches the tears in his eyes slowly but surely disappear. He feels a flutter in his throat - Paul is so much braver than he is. If the shoe was on the other foot, John isn’t quite sure he’d be able to keep himself together, to recompose himself like he’s just witnessed Paul do before his very eyes. He takes a small step forward, wary of Paul lashing out or shoving him again.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Paul’s jaw tightens and he looks at John, his eyes dark. He breathes in shakily again, then looks down at the kitchen tiles, his fringe sweeping down over his eyes. He doesn’t try to fix it.

“You should be grateful...I know...I know I don’t know what went on, but she still talks to you and sees you and she’s fine when we swing by unannounced all the time. She’s _trying_ , and you keep throwing it back in her face,” and John knows he’s right - he knows he’s being difficult still even after he talked to Mimi about it, even after he last apologised for lashing out at her. But she had hurt him so tremendously, he wasn’t really sure how to forgive her properly when the damage had already been done so long ago it was now molded into him like a growth on his back - the ugly side of himself that rears its head when he feels the most vulnerable. Instead of saying that, though, he nods his head. Paul can’t see him - he’s still staring down.

“I know...” his voice is weak and defeated and he can’t seem to fix it. Paul keeps his gaze downwards. He tries something else.

“I’m so sorry, Paul...About your mum,” he offers instead, cringes at his own words when Paul’s shoulders tense up again at the mention of her. He feels like it's the wrong choice to make - to bring up Paul's mum when the wound is still so clearly fresh, infected and oozing painfully on the surface of Paul's soul. But he has to say something, has to show wasn't an entirely heartless, self-obsessed bastard. John takes another small step forwards toward Paul, and when the younger boy doesn't recoil, doesn't even react, he takes it as a good sign.

“I bet she’d be really proud of you, if she saw you now,” he continues, trying his hardest to raise Paul’s spirits or comfort him in some way or _something_  but it felt increasingly difficult when he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it felt like. And to John, there was nothing worse than fake sympathy or fake empathy. He loathed it. He had to deal with people pretending they understood all of the time when they didn’t have the faintest idea. He supposes that Paul probably feels the same way. “You’re lovely, Paul, _Paulie_ ,” John’s hand reaches out, brushes his fingers delicately along Paul’s fringe to gently move it from his eyes. Paul looks up at him briefly then, and John can see the tears rolling down his cheeks silently.

John feels himself crumble, feels his heart drop to his arse and before he even has time to hesitate, he’s scooped Paul up into his arms and is holding him as tightly as he can whilst Paul chokes out sobs into his neck, into his chest, balling John’s loose fitting shirt up in his hand as he cries. John stays silent the entire time, alternating between rubbing circles into Paul’s back or running his fingertips gently through Paul’s hair. He feels so utterly helpless and useless, knows that anything he tries to say about Paul’s mum is going to fall on deaf ears, and if Paul is anything like John is when he’s upset, he may even be subjected to a few harsh remarks or closed off insults if he tries to comfort him with words. Keeping quiet and instead touching Paul, grounding him from all of the hurt he’s currently feeling is all he can do. It’s not enough, he thinks.

Paul’s sobs die down eventually into uncoordinated sniffles and hitches as he breathes in and out unevenly, hysteria dying down finally. When John thinks he’s stopped crying, if his silence is anything to go by, he contemplates letting go of him, but he supposes Paul will wriggle free of his touch, like he always does, when he’s had enough.

Instead, John just squeezes Paul against him tight, so tight that he lifts Paul’s feet up off the ground as he wraps his arms around the boy’s stomach and squeezes even tighter. The younger of the two squawks out in surprise, hits at John’s chest with his arm to try and make him let go. When John releases him, Paul takes a deep breath and pulls his face away so that he can see John, but his arms stay hooked underneath John's, holding him closely. There’s a tiny ghost of a smile breaking out along his trembling lips, and John releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding in relief at seeing him even the slightest bit happier.

“Are you okay?” John asks finally as he smiles softly, tone gentle. Paul just nods in response.

"...'M sorry...I don’t usually...I’m not-" Paul fumbles nervously, tripping over his own words with a shaky voice and uneven breaths. “My dad always says ‘solider on’....S’not manly to cry...” he breathes out, wiping sloppily at his eyes. He visibly cringes at himself. John grimaces back at him - Mimi said the same thing when uncle George died, he realises. He hears it all of the time, that men shouldn't show signs of weakness or vulnerability but John never understood why is it wasn’t right for a man to cry. Crying is just an emotion, just like being happy. People should be allowed to feel upset. And John knows that if he had lost his own mum, he’d definitely be crying a whole lot more than he had seen Paul do so far.

“Paul,” John sighs out his name. Paul snaps his mouth shut obediently, staring at the older boy. “I’m here. Any time at all,” he offers simply, smiling again, voice delicate like he’s talking to a young child and he thinks maybe if it was any other circumstance Paul would bat him away and tell him to do one, but instead Paul just smiles gratefully at him and nods his head again.

 

  
There’s a noise, of the front door opening again, breaking into their little world and crushing them back into reality.

 

Paul squirms, tries his hardest to move out of John’s arms but John holds him firmly where he is, not allowing him to wriggle out of his embrace so easily. Paul starts laughing as he continues to try and twist and contort his body to escape John’s grasp, but to no avail. John lowers his hands so that they snake around Paul’s waist as pulls him into his own chest, laughing into his hair as Paul thrashes playfully against him, laughing too. They almost forget about the noise that had caused Paul to want to move away in the first place until there’s a little cough coming from the kitchen doorway.

 

  
Both boys freeze their play fighting to look up and see Julia staring down at them, a small smile on her lips but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

This time when Paul ducks his head and squirms out of John’s arms he lets him go without any resistance.

Julia hangs around the doorway, shifting her weight to her other foot as she watches the two boys closely, intense gaze and something clouding behind her eyes but John can’t quite place what it means. Her lips pull into a tight line, then, and she enters the kitchen.

Paul, on the other hand, runs a hand through his hair to try and straighten out where John had messed it up and nods his head curtly to Julia.

“Err, I think I best be going home now. Thanks for having me, as always,” he says politely, an innocent smile on his lips. John sighs quietly. He didn’t expect Paul to want to go home so soon, but he knew why he was leaving, and more importantly, he knew what he had to do now that he was going to be alone with his mother again. He watches Paul cross the kitchen, standing next to Julia before he turns his head to John.

When their eyes meet the stare lingers for a few moments that draw out, making it seem even longer, a silent conversation of ‘ _thank you_ ’ and ‘ _be kind_ ’ and ‘ _see you soon_ ’ written between them silently, and then Paul is turning his head and retreating out of the doorway. The soft sound of the front door opening and closing again fills the house.

 

  
Julia nervously edges closer to John, unsure of how he’s going to react.

Much to her surprise, John practically throws himself into her as he wraps his arms around her neck and pulls her into a hug. She lets out a surprised noise, but quickly pulls him as tightly against her as she possibly can. John’s own grip around her neck tightens in response. He’s scared if he loosens it any she might evaporate underneath him, and he’ll just have to watch helplessly as she melts into a puddle of skin and muscle and drip down his clothes in big blobs, oozing between his fingertips sticky and tacky as her remains splatter on the floor like raw dough.

He’s scared that if he lets her go he might lose her again, she might fall between his fingertips and out of his life again. He saw Paul, saw the way he turned into a shell when he thought of his own mother. It might sound selfish, but he doesn’t want to be like that. He _can’t_  lose his mum again.

This is the first time he can recall hugging his mum since she came back into his life and as he rests his head on her shoulder he realises that she had probably been dying to hold him like this for so long, but he’s been such an arse about it that he hasn’t even thought to do anything like this for her. He sighs into her skin, feeling incredibly shaken and emotional after the previous hour, but he feels himself truly melt into the warm embrace of Julia’s arms.

“Mum, I’m so sorry for being such a shite. I love you,” he says quickly, squeezing his eyes shut as she places her lips onto the top of his head, touching his hair and kissing his head once, twice, three times, over and over again. He smiles softly, relaxes into the affection easily.

“I love you John,” she murmurs back into his hair, continuing to hold him close to her like her life depends on it. There’s silence for a while as they remain in the same position, comfortable as the atmosphere in the room shifts again - there’s still a heaviness between the two of them, something that John isn’t sure will ever truly leave, but he feels so much happier now and he’s sure that Julia feels the same way.

 

  
When he leaves that night, he makes sure to hug her again and tell her again that he loves her, just in case she didn't think he meant it the first time he said it.


	8. and still you make me bleed confusion right through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally re-read this chapter today and realised it was complete god damn garbage so i've spent all day rewriting it to be honest
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'bleed confusion' by the paper kites

His art class isn’t as boring as he thought it would be. It’s still college, it’s still education, and John still wishes he was practically anywhere else in the world, but in comparison to high school it was better.

He’s sat at a desk surrounded by other desks which are inhabited by people he’s never seen before. Usually John would have introduced himself by now, would have sized them all up and wormed out who he actually wanted to be friends from the group of people that are currently surrounding him, but instead he’s quite content to sit on his own and mix these blue and yellow acrylics together to make the shade of green he’s been imagining for the past five minutes. So far, all he’s done is made a huge blob of a shade that isn’t quite right, and the more he adds the bigger the blob gets and the less the colour matches the one in his mind. He’s going to get bollocked for wasting supplies but he can’t help it. As he hears a loud gasp behind his head, John closes his eyes in irritation.

“Lennon! Look at how much you’ve wasted. What did I say? Were you even listening to me?” his teacher shouts. Everyone in the room turns to look at him, the silence dragging out as she expects John to apologise, or maybe to even say something clever if his reputation has carried from one institute to the next. But John can’t bring himself to say anything, he doesn’t care enough. He just swirls his brush in the mess of off-green and ignores her completely, lets his face fall into a carefully blank expression as a few of his classmates begin to giggle quietly at his lack of reaction.

“We’re sharing, miss,” a voice jumps to defend him and John looks up to see the boy sat at the desk next to him, peering at him curiously but with a warmth that makes John smile at him. He’s tall, scrawny, hair pushed up into a much lazier quiff than John’s and a pair of black rimmed glasses on his nose, much like John’s own which were currently absent from him. He leans over then, his shoulder bumping against John’s as he dips his paintbrush into the ugly colour and casually slaps it onto his own page. He beams up at the teacher, and defeated, she turns away and leaves the two alone. John breathes out in relief, bumps his shoulder against the other boys again.

“My hero,” he teases. The other boy just chuckles and shakes his head, dropping his brush down and looking at the colour on it with a grimace.

“If only I could save you from your terrible mixing, too,” he says back, looking at John with a glint in his eyes. He stands up in his seat and leans over John slightly, grabbing at the two tubes of paint. John watches him, sees where the bottom of his black t-shirt rides up and the skin on his stomach begins to peaks out - pale, a thin happy trail descending. “You only need a tiny bit of each,” the boy says, breaking John’s fixation and forcing him to meet his eyes again. John huffs out an exasperated, dramatic sigh as he leans his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm.

“Keep up the sweet talk,” John says sarcastically, batting his eyelashes at the boy. His new acquaintance laughs and leans back into his own seat, holding up his hands in defeat.

“Get the cane then,” he says simply, turning away from John and focusing himself onto his own piece of art instead. John watches him, intrigued and endeared by this new person who seemed to be able to keep up with him so easily. He looks down at his art, sees a sketch of a woman's face - the lines are delicate, the drawing made to ensure her face is ambiguous in its features. She looks beautiful, and now she has a big line of that ugly green that John mixed smudged across her cheek and John frowns at the sight of it, noticing how it has undoubtedly ruined the piece but it didn’t stop the boy from doing it anyway. He really saved John's arse back there, risked his own piece just to make sure John didn't get shouted at. John lifts his gaze back up, staring at the stranger in front of him thoughtfully.

“Me names John,” he finally says, watching how the boy stares blankly at his art for a moment before a small smile breaks out onto his lips. It makes John smile too.

“I know,” he chuckles, and John can’t decide whether he should be proud or worried that the boy knows his name, because if he knows his name then he most likely knows all of the stories that go along with it. For a moment John doesn’t think he’s going to say anything else, but finally, he gives his own name. “Stuart,” the boy offers back, glancing at John before looking back down again.

“ _Stu_ ,” John repeats in a low, playful voice, the nickname rolling off his tongue easily. The boy chuckles again, nods his head in acknowledgment and they spend the rest of the class falling into easy, short bursts of conversation about anything and everything, whispering so as not to bring the attention of their teacher again.

Stuart is just as quick-witted and dangerously cheeky as John is, but he’s also incredibly soft and polite - he reminds John of Paul in so many ways.

But Stuart is an amazing artist with plans to sell his work and travel the world to collect inspiration and stories that he can translate onto canvases, and Paul is an amazing musician with plans to create songs that outlive himself and change the way people view music as listeners and artists forever.

And John wants both of these things for himself, both of these people to compliment his two opposite art forms.

And for a brief moment, he thinks that might be possible.

 

  
When John finishes for the day he’s surprised to find Stuart chasing his tail, walking alongside him after struggling through the crowd of other students to get to John.

“Alright Stu?” John says, smiling politely at him as he begins to walk in time with John. Stuart nods his head, reaches into his shirt pocket and retrieves a pair of sunglasses which he swaps his current glasses out for. It’s not even that sunny out, what with it being September, but John guesses it must be a staple of Stuart’s image if he just happens to carry sunglasses around with him when he’s already wearing actual glasses. It makes him distinct, at least. Feeds into that quirky artist type.

“Any particular reason you’re up my arse then?” John continues as his lips grow into a smirk, watching as Stuart’s mouth stumbles to find words to say. It’s amusing and a little cute to watch him, but as John stares at him it only reminds him of the way he has the same effect on Paul - only Paul blushes a lot more.

“Just wanted to see what you’re up to tonight,” Stuart tries to play off his previous nerves, shrugs his shoulders casually. John shrugs his shoulders back.

“Going to a mates, actually. We’re just gonna have a quiet one. D’ya wanna come?” John asks, guides the way for the two boys out of the front gate. Stuart says something, but all John hears is the word ‘yes’ and his brain has short-circuited and his entire train of thought and focus gets sucked up by the person stood further down the street. A big grin breaks its way onto his face.

“Macca!” John shouts, making Stuart look around, trying to identify the person John is shouting at. Whilst Stuart’s eyes are trained on searching through the college students around them, he misses the high school student clad in a full uniform come bounding towards the two older boys, with somebody even younger than him clad in the same uniform trailing behind slowly. Stuart stops looking, instead looks down to see a boy with brown eyes and brown hair and a big grin that is being shared by John.

“You should have said you went this college, you nob,” Paul laughs, shoving lightly at John’s shoulder with his hand. John laughs too, much quieter and softer as his shoulder falls back. Stuart doesn’t laugh, just looks between the two of them like he's a little confused about what's even happening.

"Wanted to surprise you," Joh murmurs back softly, gaze fond as he looks down at Paul. Paul just rolls his eyes, his cheeks tinging pink for the briefest of moments, but he recovers quickly - much to John's disappointment.

“Are you coming Pete’s tonight?” John continues, starts squirming slightly by shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he awaits Paul's reply. He would still go tonight even if Paul doesn't, but having him there sure would make things a lot better. He's not too sure when Paul had become a beacon of light and happiness in his life, but he's not complaining, either. Paul nods his head excitedly, makes John grin at the sight and confirmation of an appearance this evening. They're interrupted by footsteps and a boy who looks even younger than Paul pulls up beside him, the boy from further up the street that was stood with him, John realises.

“Paul if I miss the bus because of you you’re gonna carry me home,” the new boy starts, crossing his arms over his chest and focusing his attention entirely on Paul. John eyes him warily, but he’s definitely not a threat. He’s much skinnier and shorter than Paul is, brown hair and brown eyes that are deep in their colour. He has a wide mouth and large fangs that stick out like he's a little vampire, and his accent is thick and undeniably _scouse_. Paul simply rolls his eyes, but smirks at his friend anyway.

“Right, I’ll see you at Pete’s then, Johnny,” Paul says, his long eyelashes fluttering as he smiles innocently at John. John, who once again feels his skin burn at the nickname just huffs out a small breath. He wonders, judging by the way Paul beams at him like butter wouldn't melt, if he's aware of how it makes him feel when he says his name like _that_. Maybe if he did he'd stop saying it. Maybe if he did, he'd turn his nose up at John, call him a queer and beat into his face until it's nothing but a mangled mess. He deserves that anyway, he thinks, for having such intrusive thoughts about his male best friend.

“My heart will yearn for you until then,” John sighs jokingly, brushing his inner angst aside as he places a hand over his heart dramatically. Paul just giggles and shakes his head, but he turns away and walks back down the street alongside the other boy, and John just smiles after him as he watches him disappear from view.

"Who was that, then?" John jumps, remembers he's stood with Stuart. God, had he really forgotten that he was there?

"Me best mate, Paul," he answers back, finally averting his gaze from the two lads and back to Stuart, who nods his head slowly, once. His eyes are narrowed, suspicious, like he's just witnessed something that he doesn't like. John's not sure what it is, what it means, but it makes his skin prickle with anxiety. He worries for a moment that Stuart has climbed inside of his mind, has seen the beginnings of this thing he's feeling towards Paul...whatever it is. John coughs, forced.

"Come mine before we head down to Pete's?" John asks, is met with a nod, a 'yeah, alright then' in response. He smirks, rubbing his hands together. "Christ, Mimi is going to _love_  you," he says sarcastically.

 

  
Pete’s parents are gone for a few days, on a trip in Blackpool. John can’t understand why of all places you’d want to escape to you’d choose to go to Blackpool, but it has left Pete with some spare cash and a free house, and John and Stuart got served at the local corner shop so they’re all sat in Pete’s living room, crowded and cramped together as they drink their beers and chat animatedly, a record on in the background but it’s being drowned out almost completely from the number of different loud conversations taking place. John is sat on the couch, with his legs spread wide and Stuart sat beside him. Then Pete is squeezed onto the end, all of their thighs touching. Colin and Eric are sat on the floor, leaning their heads against the wall. Len is stood up, leaning against the fireplace and Paul is on his own, sat in the armchair.

“I’m just saying, I think it's a bit outdated to believe there’s only _one_  person on the planet that is a perfect match for you,” Stuart chimes in, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. John watches him, positively delighted to meet somebody else who shares opinions similar to his own. Paul groans from his spot in the armchair, and John shoots him a smug smile.

“I’m not listening to this shite again. Come off it,” Paul complains, taking a sip from his mug. Despite being mercilessly mocked for it, Paul had turned down drinking any beer when a bottle was slid his way earlier on in the night. He said that if his dad found out he’s been drinking he’d kill him. John is sure he’s going to get a good hiding from Mimi too when he goes home tonight, but that didn’t stop him. He doesn’t really understand why Paul is so hesitant to disobey his father, but other than poking fun at how square he is he doesn’t say much else about it to the younger boy. The same couldn't be said about the rest of the lads, though.

"Never you mind Paul, just drink your tea," Len mocks in a feminine voice. Paul frowns at him, lifts his mug up to his lips as his brows pull together. John chuckles, turns his head back to Stuart, who is already staring at him with a lazy smile - eyes half-lidded, lips wobbling as their eyes meet.

“It just doesn’t make any sense! You're supposed to settle with a person that is matched to you when you’re sixteen? What about when you’re twenty, or forty? How can someone be right for you that entire time? People...They change and grow,” John says in agreement, shifting so he’s facing Stuart and using his hands to chat animatedly. Their knees knock together and John is almost sitting in the poor lad’s lap, but both are too wrapped up in their conversation to even care about the proximity between them. Stuart is grinning back at him, nodding his head to every word John says like he’s a genius, lapping up every sentence that falls from John's mouth like his life depends on it. There’s a sparkle in Stuart’s eyes, and John feels a rush of joy at talking to somebody who just _gets it_  for once.

“I think we all have a soul mate, but it’s not just one person. I think maybe little parts of our soul are in other people - like, like our friends and family and even pets. Those are the people you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with, and not just lovers,” Stuart says. John’s giddy with excitement, with the way he’s found a person with such a beautiful mind and beautiful thoughts that run through it. He’s not aware anybody else is listening to their conversation until Paul scoffs from his seat across the living room.

John tears his eyes away from Stuart, to Paul whose scowling at him. The smile on John’s face falters, confused with why Paul looks so angry at him. He tries to wrack his brain for something wrong he’s said in the previous conversation, but he keeps coming up with nothing.

Sometimes you don't meet them at sixteen...A lot of people don't get their mark at sixteen...And those that find their soul mates quick, well they change with you. They grow with you and in spite of all of the changes that are going to take place in your life, they’re still the person that’s best suited for you. That’s why they’re your soul mate,” Paul says, his scowl relaxing slightly but he’s still got a hardened expression, like he’s irritated. John doesn’t say anything, but he hears Stuart snort from beside him and he feels a smirk creeping onto his face just from the noise, a subconscious, primitive thing of ganging up on the weakest member of the group.

“Maybe you’re just too young to understand. You haven’t even got your mark yet, have you? So how could you know?” Stuart says. There’s an air of arrogance around his words, he’s condescending Paul and John isn’t sure how he feels about that. Sure, Paul was younger than the rest of the boys but lord knew that he was completely capable of keeping up with them and sometimes even excelling them. Academically, Paul is definitely more talented than John. He got good grades, excelled in a few of his subjects and never turned work in late. John was lazy, uninspired, unmotivated when it came to do with anything that wasn't music. He loved art, but even doing that in a controlled educational environment was already proving to be a bit shit for him, if he's honest.

Instead of outwardly defending Paul, though, John just chuckles at Stuart’s words. Paul snaps his mouth shut and leans back into his seat, letting different series of other conversations overtake the one he had interrupted. It makes John's throat feel like its closing, seeing he's just pushed Paul out of the social hierarchy so quickly. Maybe he shouldn't do that again, not if he wanted his best mate to keep being just that - his best mate. He swallows, averts his gaze and settles back upon Stuart, who has begun to chat with Pete. John can't really hear what they're saying, feels like the world has slowed down around him.

“Need a smoke,” Paul says finally, quietly grumbling to himself as he stands up and leaves the room. He trails into the kitchen and there’s a gust of air and the sound of a door opening and closing, harsh.

John sighs, listens to the slam of the door and inwardly cringes at himself for being such a twat. His eyes fixated on the doorway, he hears Len and Colin curse at each other as they wrestle, fighting to get into the armchair that Paul had just abandoned. John's sure that if he was watching, if he was in a better mood, maybe he'd be laughing right now at his friends, maybe would have even joined in with them. But he can't shake the thought of Paul stood outside, feeling sorry for himself and - wait, smoke?

"I'm gonna bum a ciggie off Macca," John says, untangles his knees from Stuart's as he stumbles up. Stuart grins up at him, nods his head and offers John the matchbox that had fallen from his pocket and onto the couch. He drops it into John's hand, and John returns a grateful smile at him before he decides to slip out of the room.

"So...John and Paul?" Stuart asks when he assumes John is out of earshot. John hesitates, hides behind the corner of the doorway, making sure his shadow is hidden from view as he attempts to eavesdrop on his friends Stuart's question is met with a series of groans.

"Don't even bother-"

"Not even we get it-"

"Save yer breath-"

"...Oh right?" Stuart says, confused as all hell. He hears another sigh, the music quietening down as someone clears their throat, as if they're about to say something incredibly important.

“They’re best mates...But I think our Johnny boy has taken a shine to you instead now,” Len laughs. The way he says the nickname doesn’t quite sit right with John. It doesn’t have the same kind of adoration to it that it does when Paul says it. It doesn’t make him feel the same way it does when Paul says it, he realises. Does that mean the nickname is only attractive to him when it’s Paul saying it? Or does Ivan just not say it right?

“I used to be John’s best mate ‘til Paul turned up. Then I was replaced by Sir _McCharmly_ ,” Pete says, sighing dramatically for emphasis. A couple of the boys chuckle.

John feels the dull sink of his heart at Pete's remark, joking or not. It's true - they were once so much closer than they were now, until Paul essentially replaced him, but he couldn’t help that Paul was better suited to him than Pete was. John and Paul had music, had dreams and life goals that complimented each other so much that they had planned their lives growing their music until they're worldwide talented musicians. John and Pete...They didn’t have much, anymore. They liked to steal, and kiss pretty girls - John hadn’t touched a girl for a while now, though. He wasn’t interested when he could just throw his life into a devotion for rock and roll, or at least that's what he keeps telling himself.

Pete didn’t sound too cut up about it, anyway, because the next minute he’s back to talking about any old nonsense with the rest of the boys.

John swallows a thick clump of spit, nervous, and continues to the back door, where he opens it and sure enough discovers Paul, finishing off a cigarette with his head staring up at the clouds. John's lips part, a surprised expression on his face. So it's true, Paul was actually smoking. He coughs, straightens himself out.

“If Jim gets a waft of that he’ll have you,” John jokes, closing the door behind him. “Thought you didn’t smoke?” he asks after Paul ignores him.

“I didn’t,” Paul states back flatly.

“Then why are you?” John raises an eyebrow, starts edging closer until he’s at Paul’s side. The younger boy breaks his trance from the sky, looks at John instead with a carefully blank expression on his face.

“This nightmare, some Lennon lad, made me think it looked cool so I started,” he says, lifting his cigarette up to his mouth to take a small drag. It’s not that it looks wrong to see Paul smoke - it made him look older, more attractive to have a cigarette curled between his lips - but it just wasn’t something John was used to looking at. He hadn’t seen Paul smoke before tonight, wasn't aware Paul had even taken up the habit.

“Finally poisoned by the bad apple? Someone should teach that bloody Lennon a lesson,” John raises his balled fists to the sky, as if he was talking to God himself and he hears Paul let out a short, quiet chuckle.

“If only...” Paul’s voice trails off as he takes another drag. They fall into a silence then, and John feels fine. He’s comfortable, but when he continues to stare at Paul his chest feels heavy at the sight of him, his expression devoid of any emotion and his eyes half-lidded. His jaw is clenched and he looks like he’s gritting his teeth. John frowns at the sight of it all, like he’s staring at someone who is Paul but not quite - his Paul doesn’t smoke, his Paul likes to laugh and poke fun at John whenever he can, his Paul is _lovely_. Something is wrong with him and John isn’t quite sure why he doesn’t deserve to know.

“What’s the face for, mard arse?” John finally breaks, and has to ask him. Paul just breathes out, a guarded smile on his face as he looks down at his cigarette.

“Not being a mard arse...” Paul mutters defensively, flicking the end of his cigarette onto the floor and crushing it under his shoe. As he stares down at the floor his bottom lip juts out into a pout and John can’t help but giggle, laugh spilling over his lips before he has an opportunity to truly bite it back. Their eyes meet, and Paul begins to frown - pout still in place. He looks adorable, like a child who isn’t getting his own way and John soaks up the expression to store in his brain so he can remember this moment later on.

“Why are you laughing?” he accuses, eyes narrowing. John’s giggles continue.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” John offers as an explanation. Paul’s frown deepens into a scowl, only now he’s not pouting. John swallows with immediate regret for his previous comment. Just as he was starting to get him back out of his mood it seems he had lost him again. John struggles, can’t figure out what he can say to get himself out of the hole he appears to be digging for himself.

“I’m sure Stuart will make an effort to remind you,” Paul spits back bitterly. After he says it he blinks, like he‘s surprised the sentence has fallen from his own lips. John watches as Paul scrunches his face back into a frown, but he doesn’t miss the way his ears tinge pink. John wants to say something teasing, something playful, but Paul’s words sting the longer this silence and his mood draws out.

“I shouldn’t be mad at you...” Paul starts again, shaking his head as he begins to walk back to the door. John watches helplessly, wanting to offer his ears for Paul to get whatever it is he’s mad about off his chest. John has an inkling he knows what it is, but he can’t be sure.

Was it that John and Stuart had ganged up on him? Was that Stuart had laughed at him and patronised him? Was it that John hadn’t defended him? Was it...Was it because of Stuart in general? John can’t figure it out, and as he watches Paul he thinks he’s never going to find out because he’s waited too long and missed his chance to comfort Paul with whatever it is.

"Paul..." John calls out, almost desperately as he attempts to stop his friend from leaving on a note like that. He didn't want it to end there, didn't want Paul to retreat back inside without at least talking about what was giving him such a face ache tonight. Paul stops, turns to look at John. He raises his eyebrows, eyes widening as if to say 'what?!' short, snappy.

"You know what," John says back anyway, like Paul had actually voiced it out loud. Reluctantly, Paul sighs. He covers his face with his hand, pulls at his closed eyelids like his soul is tired. Maybe it is. Then, slowly, he makes his way back over to John.

"You've pissed me off John, is what," Paul says angrily, voice quiet. John averts his gaze, looks down to the concrete beneath them. Fuck. "I just wish you would have said somet to Stuart...He's your mate, but I'm your best mate, y'know?" Paul adds. John just nods his head back, frankly a little ashamed. He knew it was the wrong thing to do the moment he had done it, but it didn't make a difference now.

"I'm sorry..." John says softly. He watches Paul's shoes, watches them edge closer towards his own until their toes tap against each other. It makes John lift his head, almost smack into Paul's nose as he does it with him being stood so close. Paul smiles at him, a small twist of his lips and eyes that are sad, but forgiving.

"I know you are," Paul says back, voice equally as quiet, like they're tucked into a corner of a room and are trying to whisper so as not to be heard by the rest of the world. Paul reaches his hand out, places it gently on John's shoulder. There's a tingle, a small spark as their skin touches and it stings at first, but turns into a steady hum of energy. Is this is going to happen every time? Paul squeezes, feels a burst of electricity at the motion but then his hand is gone too soon, and so is the static. It leaves a dull fuzz in John's shoulder, in his arm.

"You done being a mard arse, then?" John smirks.

"Twat," Paul rolls his eyes, shoves at John's shoulder lightly but he's turning his body, a signal for John to follow him back inside. John can't fight the smile that breaks onto his lips as he follows the younger boy back inside.

 

When John reaches the living room, he sees that Paul sits on the floor, reaches up to grab at his mug and drink whats left inside of it, pulling a funny face when he realises his cup of tea has long since gone cold. John chuckles, tries to ignore the feeling of a flutter in his chest at the sight of Paul grimacing - he looks cute. Reluctantly, John changes his gaze, shifts his eyes over to Stuart who is already staring at him, lips pulled into a tight line.

Shit.

John swallows, decides to plonk himself down next to Pete - a neutral party, a safe option in the sudden bristling of characters that had taken place tonight. As he puts an arm around Pete’s shoulder and takes a sip of his friend’s beer, John lets the previous conflict slip his mind, and it seems everybody else has too as they fall into animated chatter for the rest of the night. He can't shake the uneasy feeling inside of him though, as he keeps catching Stuart catch him staring at Paul when he thinks no one is paying attention.


	9. you'll never be sincerely right if i stand here with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to update yesterday but basically i went out and when i got home i was in no fit state to do anything other than lie on my bed for hours staring blankly at this weird poster i have of paul in weird colours...you know....those weird beatles posters  
> http://www.filmesrome.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/The-Beatles-1-Poster-Ver.jpg  
> those ones...i dig them all apart from the paul one bc...what is it...why did they do him like that,,,.......
> 
> anyway, trigger warning for this chapter!!!! it contains child abuse :( please do not read this chapter if you know this is going to upset you or trigger you in any way, your health is much more important than some crappy fanfic<333
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'st. clarity' by the paper kites

John stands outside of the gates of his college, squinting down as he struggles to see how much of his cigarette is left. Partly because he wasn’t wearing his glasses, partly because he felt rough from drinking the night before and now he can’t focus properly without feeling a lump of sick rising in his throat.

He had managed to slip his way past Mimi with relative ease when he finally stumbled through the front door late last night, but he’s pretty sure that she had clocked on to the fact he was drunk anyway. She didn’t seem very talkative when he got in, just let him slink upstairs and find his way to his bed - which John was grateful for.

Only now he felt groggy, that kind of run down feeling where you felt sick constantly, a throb that pounded in your forehead and made you feel sweaty all over. He groans to himself, throwing the remains of his cigarette onto the concrete floor. He should probably start heading inside soon, but he’d rather do anything than go to class feeling this shit.

“Rough?” a familiar voice says. John snaps his head up fast, eyes settling upon Stuart, who is giving him a little smirk as he makes his way to John’s side. He’s wearing his sunglasses again - probably partly because they’re his look, partly because he’s hungover too.

“I really didn’t wanna come in today,” John sighs, jutting his jaw out in irritation. Stuart chuckles, a cigarette between his lips. He pats down various parts of his body only to frown, John trying to watch him but he’s moving too fast and it’s hurting John’s eyes to stare so much.

“Haven’t got a match, have you Johnny?” Stuart asks, staring at John expectantly. John just nods his head, retrieving his match box from his own pocket. The nickname doesn’t mean anything when Stuart says it, either. No nervous butterflies, no stirring of his stomach, no bashful grin creeping onto his face. That’s concerning, he thinks.

John lights the match, leans into Stuart and cups his hand around one side of the cigarette to ensure the faint breeze doesn’t blow the match out. When it ignites the end of the cigarette, John pulls away fast and blows out the lit match with a small huff of his breath.

“Tah,” Stuart mumbles, beginning to smoke.

The two stand in silence, save for the noise of Stuart breathing in and out, small clouds of smoke following after and wafting into John’s line of sight every so often. He's surprised Stuart hasn't confronted him about what he kept seeing last night - John gaping at Paul like he was a fit bird. Maybe Stuart was too drunk to remember, thinks that John was too drunk to realise what he was doing. He hopes that's the case.

There’s a growing number of crowds bursting through the gates as the start of the day draws nearer. John would rather have anything happen to him at this moment than to have to cross the threshold into those gates.

And anything comes in the form of a bus with rowdy school boys clambering off of the steps at the stop opposite the two schools.

John watches, eyes intense as he surveys every boy that steps off the bus, one by one, until his vision settles on a familiar brown head of hair styled in a lazy way that he’s sure would only look good on the boy in question.

He’s with that tiny, skinny lad again who follows Paul around like a lame sidekick. When the bus pulls away, John watches as Paul glances over towards the college entrance, sweeping the groups of students until his eyes meet John’s. A slow smile breaks out onto Paul’s face, but it falters when his gaze moves over to Stuart. It’s only for a second, and John might have missed it if he blinked - might even have imagined it. Paul makes his way swiftly over to the two, the small boy that usually clings to him and follows him everywhere hesitantly remaining on the other side of the road.

“Morning,” Paul says, his voice flat and bland. Stuart nods his head in response, but Paul isn’t even looking at Stuart to acknowledge his gesture. His eyes are firmly trained on John.

“I don’t wanna go in,” John groans, throwing his head back to lean against the wall. He sighs loudly, as if his friends weren’t already aware of the fact he was feeling miserable. Paul grimaces back at him, nodding his head in agreement.

“Me either. But my dad was getting ready for work as I was waking up so...” Paul trails off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugging his shoulders. John eyes him carefully, gaze crawling upwards from his shoes all the way to his eyes slowly as he takes in the sight. It was weird to see Paul in his school uniform - John was used to him being smart casual, sure, but seeing him in a shirt and tie and blazer made him look a lot older than his regular clothes did, even if the uniform itself was a clear indicator of his actual age. John smiles, gaze soft as he looks into Paul’s brown eyes. Then it clicks in his head.

“Your dads at work? What time does he finish?” John asks, an idea stirring in his head. Paul thinks for a moment, eyes narrowing as he watches John smirk deviously at him.

“Six...” Paul says quietly, voice cautious. There’s a look of panic on his face as John’s smirk grows bigger, like he’s afraid of what the older boy is going to say to him next.

“So you’ve got a freebie?” John presses, hoping his question will be enough of a hint. Paul opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes snap open and his mouth snaps shut as he finally catches on. He’s quiet for a moment or two.

“...Errr...I dunno John...My dad’ll kill me if he finds out...” Paul trails off, averting his gaze to the ground as he begins to squirm under John’s intense stare. The older of the two simply shakes his head, reaches his hand out to place on Paul’s shoulder encouragingly.

“He won’t! It took Mimi a week to realise I was expelled. He’s not gonna know you missed one day...C’mon Paulie...” John tries. Paul looks back up at him, nose scrunching as John bats his eyelashes at him in a final attempt to convince him.

“That only works when I do it...” Paul mumbles, but there’s a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye so John already knows he’s won. Feeling smug and triumphant, John gives Paul’s shoulder a little squeeze before he lets go of him, forcing himself back up off the wall he was leaning against. “...Just make sure you’re gone before he gets home, yeah?” Paul asks, raising an eyebrow at the older of the two. John nods, mock salutes his friend in both understanding and agreement. He turns then, to Stuart, and hands him his match box from his pocket.

“Since I won’t be here for you to sponge off,” he teases, stares at Stuart as he chuckles. Stuart grips the other side of the box, fingers touching John’s lightly as he moves. There’s no spark, no surge of energy and feelings like there is whenever Paul touches him. That’s odd, he thinks. Maybe Paul’s just one of those people with lots of energy, like when you touch static things and get an electric shock.

John recoils his hand first, let’s Stuart tuck the box into his pocket before he turns to Paul, who darts his gaze from where John and Stuart were holding the match box, and each other, just a few moments previously up to John’s eyes, his own glazed over slightly. John doesn’t understand. He raises an eyebrow, but when he’s met with nothing other than Paul turning his head away, beginning to cross back over to the other side of the street he decides to drop his subtle prodding and follow behind him.

As they pass the tiny boy across the street, Paul stops briefly to talk to him. John decides to hang back, can barely hear them talking but they’re both sporting toothy grins as they talk back and forth, an easy relaxation on both of their features. John takes the moment to simply observe.

He wonders how Paul knows this boy, how long they've been friends. They seem to feel relaxed around each other and the way that he sees them cling to one another every morning and evening as they come to and from school, it's obvious they're close. But Paul has never mentioned any other boy to him before, and Paul has never bothered to introduce John to this other boy, and John can't help but feel a little jealous that there is this other boy who is also incredibly close to Paul, who Paul keeps close enough to his chest that he hasn't even mentioned him before. He's not like John - John, who just yesterday met Stuart and brought him back to the lads like he was a shiny new toy. John, who had lots of people to surround himself with but a tight circle which he chose to spend extra time seeing. Paul had wriggled his way into that circle quickly. But Paul...John doesn't really know what he gets up to when he's out of sight. Maybe this other lad was really his best friend. Maybe John was kidding himself by thinking he has that title.

Their conversation comes to a close, the smaller of the two younger boys reaching out and grabbing at Paul's forearm as he says something brief. Paul scoffs, pulls his arm away and hits the boy playfully in the chest and then they're both smirking at each other, eyes dancing as they stare between themselves. Himself and Paul look at each other like that a lot, he thinks. Maybe Paul just looks at people like that all of the time - but then, he hasn't noticed Paul giving that look to any of the other lads in the band. He doesn't get it. What is so special about this other boy, this boy that he doesn't want John to meet?

Paul comes back to him, then, and they wait at the bus stop for a while, chatting about anything and everything and nothing all at once. It's easy to talk to such a big character like Paul, especially when you have almost everything in common with him.

 

  
John walks slowly up to Paul’s front door, taking in the outer appearance of his house. It’s much less glamorous than his own - it’s a generic terraced house that he’s used to being in when he goes to any of his friend's houses, so it doesn’t look to be anything special. There’s a tiny front door, one window, chipped windowsill paint and old coloured bricks paling in the sunlight. It doesn’t stand out in comparison to any of the other houses along the street. But just the fact that the house is _Paul’s house_  makes it a special building to him.

Paul glances up at him briefly from his position by his side, turning the key into the hole and opening the front door. He takes a step back, gestures his hand to offer John to go in first, which he does.

He trails into the hallway, squeezes himself up against the wall so that Paul can also fit into the confined space as well as close the front door. John takes a moment to look at the wallpaper and the carpet - it’s all very generic and again, nothing stands out. It’s just like everybody else’s house. Paul leans forward, opens the other door so that the living room is in view and John shuffles inside, back hitting against Paul’s chest as he squirms out of his cramped spot and into the living room.

The first thing John notices is the piano situated inside of the living room. He smiles, thinks about how that seems about right. Paul loves music, Paul is amazing at music so of course he has a bloody piano in his living room. He walks over to it slowly, lifts up the top and stares at the keys with a grimace. John isn’t good at the piano, has never really tried to play, but he’d love to get into it someday. He wishes he was talented enough to bang out a tune and impress Paul in his own home, but alas he is not that impressive.

As if reading his mind, as only Paul can, the younger boy crosses the room to stand by John’s side, both cramped up again as they stand between the wall and the seat. Paul drops down into the seat first and budges over, taps for John to join him which he does obediently. They’re sat incredibly close, knees and shoulders knocking together messily as they struggle to fit on the shared seat. Paul turns his head slightly to get a look at John, and the elder of the two chuckles as Paul’s hairs tickle against the side of his cheeks like little feathers.

“Give us a tune then, baby,” John says softly, the close proximity of the two meaning he didn’t have to talk very loud in order to be heard, only that when he speaks at a low volume it gives opportunity for all of the fond affection to ooze out painfully obvious in his tone. The pet name rolls off of his tongue without much thought, and he almost forgets he’s even said it until Paul splutters next to him, eyes flying open as his fingers twitch, slamming unceremoniously onto an ugly sounding key that jolts the otherwise silent house. John feels his own cheeks rise in heat, embarrassed and a little humiliated at the surprised reaction. He ought to be more careful if he didn’t want to drive Paul away in disgust with his positively suggestive comments and phrases. But before he can dwell in his mortified state any longer, Paul’s fingers begin to delicately dance up and down, pressing out the keys to a familiar tune.

“ _Darling, you send me..._ ”

John feels like he’s never going to get used to this - to hearing Paul’s voice soft like honey and melodic pouring into his brain like a sweet lullaby, a calming force in his ever chaotic mind. And yet, he wishes he could plaster Paul’s voice onto a vinyl and play it on repeat until it cracks and snaps from the grooves being worn to death. And then he would reach into his collection, a collection made up entirely of vinyls that crackle Paul's voice, because he'll be a big musician by then, taking the world by storm. John would pull another one out and repeat the process. It would cost him a fortune, he realises, to keep buying all these bloody vinyls, but he’d be willing to not steal the records if the money was going to Paul.

He can already imagine himself and millions of other people sat in their living rooms, in their bedrooms, with Paul’s voice blaring from a record player, their eyes closed as they just _listen_  and enjoy Paul for the wonder that he is. The thought makes his chest fill with pride and a bittersweet twist in his stomach as he realises that one day he’s not going to be the only person absolutely moved by this lovely voice that makes every other artist he listens to pale in comparison - everybody he seems to listen to lately sounds lifeless when put against the wonderful Paul McCartney, who gives him live performances like these.

John can’t help but smile, his eyes falling into half lids as he leans closer, gaze shifting between watching Paul’s fingers press onto keys with delicate ease and watching his side profile as his fringe falls into his face, as he closes and opens his eyes when hitting particular notes, as his jaw moves as he sings, as the veins in his neck let themselves be known with more demanding notes. He’s a sight to behold and John watches him hungrily, desperate to keep this memory of the younger boy in the big wooden box stored in the back of his mind for moments with Paul. Paul’s box.

“ _Darling, you, you, you, you thrill me..._ ” Paul keeps his gaze steady, staring at the wall in front of the two of them with a determination. Every time they’re at group rehearsals Paul has no problem making eye contact with John, will often search for his eyes randomly during performances but now it’s as if John is a stranger he’s playing to, all formalities and uncertainty of where to train his gaze. John doesn’t let the awkward gesture spoil his moment of bliss, though, just carries on watching Paul, once again in awe of how beautifully he does everything whether it be breathing, sitting static or creating music from both his hands and his lips.

“ _Honest, you do..._ ” both boys sing out. John’s voice is much more coy, hesitant. He doesn’t want to take away from Paul’s performance, and he fears he might have done just that as a pair of big fluttering brown eyes finally look at him. But then Paul breaks out into a shy grin, face goofy and lips wobbling in amusement. John just stares, darts his eyes to Paul’s bottom lip as he licks his own. God, they’re so close together. The melody playing on the piano fizzles out as Paul’s fingers lazily begin to hit wrong notes, noises falling sloppily into the air as he continues to stare at John’s eyes, his own widening slightly as the older boy’s gaze keeps lowering down to his mouth.

“You’re a muse,” John murmurs, eyes still soft as shifts in his seat, leaning his shoulder into Paul’s. There’s something so special about seeing Paul sing, about seeing Paul play music and it makes John feel dizzy with a fluffy static that crackles inside of his veins.

“Piss off,” Paul chuckles, turning away from John as he grins. He doesn’t realise John’s comment is completely genuine, thinks he’s just trying to have a laugh. John would never have a laugh at the expense of Paul’s musical talent. Instead of saying anything more, John watches helplessly as Paul wriggles off of the seat and stands up, stretching his arms up in the air. His sweatshirt lifts up, exposing the white shirt underneath and John finds himself slightly disappointed by the lack of exposed flesh.

“Right,” Paul says finally, lifting his hand up to scratch his scalp. “What should we do?”

  
They spend their day doing various different things - eating sandwiches, drinking cups of tea, listening to different records and comparing opinions over said records with each other. They spend most of their time downstairs, where it’s warm and where they have access to the kitchen and the record player and even the back door when they need to go out to smoke. To hide the cigarettes from Jim, John climbs the back wall and throws the ends as far down the back alley as he possibly can. They end up outside of Paul’s room eventually, wanting to practice a little bit before John has to catch the bus home again.

  
When Paul opens the door to his bedroom, John hesitates for a moment before stepping inside. There are a few posters of Elvis Presley stuck on the wall where Paul’s bed is. His guitar is leaned up neatly against the wall in the opposite corner, and his bed is perfectly made and laid out. There’s no real mess, save for some school books and a couple of pens lying on the floor.

Paul rushes past him quickly, leaning down to sort out the pile of work and he picks them up, spreading them over his chest of drawers instead. John follows him further into the bedroom, closes the door behind him and places himself gently on the end of Paul’s bed. He wants to lean back against the wall, wants to make himself comfortable, but he doesn’t want to get himself or Paul into trouble by messing up his perfectly made bedding.

John’s own room is nothing like this - he has stacks of doodles, some stuck up on his walls, many more scattered along surfaces and the floor, some finished and some barely sketches. His own bed is never made by himself and is instead crumpled up every morning until Mimi takes it upon herself to straighten it. Paul’s room is organised and clean and the little posters he has on his walls are hung neatly, straight and in line with each other perfectly.

Paul reaches out, picks up his guitar and sits on the floor opposite of John. He starts to tune his guitar, tongue poking out of his mouth slightly as he concentrates hard. John huffs out a small chuckle, watching him as he decides to take the risk of being shouted at, leaning his back against the wall. When Paul doesn’t say anything, he figures it must be okay. When Paul is finished tuning his guitar he begins to play a random string of chords that are unfamiliar to John, but it sounds nice and he finds himself closing his eyes, content.

He’s not sure how long he and Paul sit there, not speaking but letting the music falling between them create its own kind of conversation. It must be a while, because he feels his consciousness slipping slowly, so he decides to open his eyes again. As they flutter open he finds that two brown eyes are already staring at him, soft and swimming with emotion.

“We should start writing our own songs,” Paul says finally, looking to the small pile of paper on his chest of drawers. John lets out a noise, a hum of approval in response. Writing songs can’t be _that_  difficult, he thinks. All you have to do is rhyme some words together and create a melody that fits. Not to suck his own cock, but John found it easy to formulate words in his mind. He was always toying with the idea of writing as a serious career option. He loved poetry, loved to write his own poetry but he would rather die than face the possibility of getting his work rejected by the world, by Paul.

“Have you ever tried?” John asks quietly, watching Paul watch something out of his window. Paul just shakes his head, eyes trained on the glass like there’s something holding him there. Then Paul’s eyes focus again, and he drags his gaze back to John’s face. Paul smiles gently at him.

“No...I’m not sure I’d be any good in all honesty,” he chuckles, but John knows he’s hitting an insecure spot of Paul’s, because Paul’s voice is quiet and there’s this look in his eyes that’s remarkably vulnerable. John just tuts, brow knitting together as he frowns slightly at Paul.

“I bet you’ll be amazing. Just like you are with everything else...We’ll help each other, yeah?” John asks, watches as Paul nods his head hesitantly, biting his bottom lip. John sighs softly, pulls himself off of the bed as he crawls along the floor and sits next to Paul, crossing his legs and leaning up to grab a piece of paper from the drawers. “Let’s try it,” he decides. Paul looks at him, eyes lingering as he shows his uncertainty through those same vulnerable eyes and nervous lip biting. After a moment of thought, Paul slowly lowers his guitar onto the floor and places it down gently, looking at John expectantly, like he holds the key to the secrets of the universe.

But John doesn’t ever get to start the conversation, because Paul’s bedroom door slams open and a middle-aged man is stood on the other side. His face darkens as he looks between the two boys, and Paul’s own face pales in response. The younger boy shoots up to his feet, face turning pink in embarrassment at being caught. John follows him slowly, rising to his feet and keeping his gaze locked on the man at the bedroom door.

“Are you taking the piss?!” the man shouts. Paul jumps, hands jolting slightly in fear. He keeps his gaze lowered to the ground and an uneasy feeling settles deep in John’s stomach like a never-ending pit that makes him feel sick. Instinctively, John takes a step forward, placing himself protectively in front of Paul as his stare at the man hardens. The man looks at him suspiciously for a second, but then something dawns on him and his face twists into a smile, something ugly and unsettling.

“And you must be the elusive John Lennon I hear so much about,” the man states, voice arrogant as he takes a step forward so that he is inside the bedroom. John hears Paul behind him take a step backwards, so John follows his lead and takes a small step backwards, still acting as a barrier between Paul and who he now realises must be his dad, Jim.

“Always happy to meet a fan,” John bites back, smirking. Jim looks taken aback for a moment, a look of complete shock on his face, but then he begins to scowl and John knows he’s said the wrong thing but at the moment he doesn’t care. He’ll do anything to buy Paul some time, to be able to protect him from his dad. Because he knows Paul isn’t cowering in the corner for no reason, because he knows Paul is going to get a good fucking hiding for being caught bunking off school with the resident devil child, especially when he’s already all too aware that Jim isn’t the fondest of him anyway.

“Don’t get smart with me, son. I’m not Paul. I’m not one of your mates. And I won’t be spoken to like that,” Jim says sternly. He takes another step forward, coming into John’s personal space as he stands, sizing the boy up. John swallows, feels his throat bob in an embarrassing display of anxiety. He’s fought grown men before, but he’s never won. And he definitely does not want to brawl Paul’s own father unless he wants Paul out of his life forever. Instead, he puffs his chest out and raises his chin in an attempt to make himself look bigger and more intimidating.

“And _you,_ ” Jim spits out, lifting his hand to point a finger at Paul. John turns his head, looks behind him to see Paul has curled in on himself. He looks so small, practically hiding his body behind John. His face is still red and hot but his expression is blank, his eyes clouded over as he tries to distance himself mentally from the whole situation.

This unfortunately just seems to aggravate his father more. As John turns back towards the man, he sees Jim launch himself forward suddenly, face twisting in rage as he attempts to get to Paul. John forces himself to catch Jim before he can reach Paul, instead getting barrelled into and knocked. John stumbles from one foot to the other, feeling his chest and stomach throbbing in a dull pain from the weight of hitting against a grown man’s strength. But it’s worth it to hear Paul breathe out shakily in relief behind him. It’s worth the pain to make sure Paul doesn’t have to deal with it. Jim looks up at John through his eyelashes, but it doesn’t look the same way it does when Paul does it. John thinks he must get that softness in the look he always gives John from his mother, because Jim is all hard edges and a cold hard stare. His eyelashes don’t fan his eyes in that same flattering way that Paul’s do. He doesn’t look half as beautiful as Paul does. But his facial expression is familiar - it's the same kind of twisted smile Paul had given him when they talked briefly about his mum. It scares John, suddenly, to think Paul's smile was out of hurt and Jim's was out of rage. The same smile with two completely different meanings.

“Get out of my fucking house,” Jim says quietly, voice calm in a way that emphasises his anger. John licks his bottom lip nervously, but he doesn’t budge. He can’t leave Paul alone when his dad is this mad at him. Jim reaches out and shoves John’s shoulder harshly, making Paul gasp. Paul comes up behind John, can feel his warmth radiating onto his back as his voice filters into his ear.

“I’ll be okay, John...” Paul says quietly. John doesn’t believe him, can’t believe him when he _knows_ as soon as he leaves the room Paul is going to get bollocked. But what can he do? If he sticks around it will make things worse, Jim could possibly call the police and then Mimi would get dragged into it all. John sighs, buries his face in his hands and claws at his skin in frustration. Paul repeats himself, tries his hardest to sound brave and reassuring in order to convince John to leave. It doesn’t work, but John has to oblige him anyway for both of their safety. So he walks slowly, away from Paul, past Jim, frowning at the latter as he reaches Paul’s bedroom door. He lingers in the doorway for a second, but leaves the room.

 

Halfway down the stairs John hears the painful slap of Jim’s palm hitting against Paul’s skin. He balls his hands into fists, starting to shake with rage as Paul whines out and his dad begins shouting at him. He closes his eyes, trying as hard as he can to fight off the budding rage in the pit of his stomach. He has to resist the temptation to run back upstairs and batter Jim to within an inch of his life for laying his hands on Paul. But it’s not his place to do that, and it’s not his place to come between their relationship, he reminds himself bitterly.

All he wants to do is protect Paul, protect him from everything bad in the world but it seems that right now that the only bad in Paul’s world is himself. It was his idea; he forced Paul to stay off school and now he’s put Paul in harms way with his own father. John hurriedly makes his way down the rest of the stairs and slips outside the front door quietly.

 

  
He doesn’t hear from Paul the next day, or the day after.

 

  
Paul doesn’t show up to group rehearsals that week, and when the group asks John where he is, expecting him to know, a painful sting in his heart burns him inside out as he repeatedly has to say ‘I don’t know’. Eventually, they stop asking, stop bothering John about it.

 

  
He doesn’t even see Paul in the mornings anymore at college. He hangs around the gates and even makes himself late for his first classes of the day in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Paul getting off the bus, of Paul stood with that little kid outside of the gates of his school.

 

  
Nothing.

 

  
Not for two weeks - not until just days before John’s 17th birthday.


	10. i feel it and i know it runs deeper than i ever show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MAN i'm so sorry that this is late! college is eating my life away but i have 3 more weeks left and i'll finally be free for the summer  
> hopefully this was worth the wait for you all<3
> 
> -
> 
> title chapter comes from the song 'i done you so wrong' by the paper kites

  
John is walking past the chippy, on his way to go over to Stuart’s house - he lives in his own house and it’s very grown up and John finds it impressive that Stuart is capable of living alone. He’s been spending much more time with Stuart lately, ever since he’d been pretty much abandoned by Paul. He finds himself sat watching Stuart sketch and paint as he plays with his guitar on his settee often. He’s decided against bringing his guitar today, thinks maybe he’ll just join Stuart in drawing instead.

There’s a voice calling out a loud ‘thank you’ as the door to the chippy opens and a bell rings out, and John moves his eyes so fast he almost feels dizzy with the sudden change of view. Behold, stood before his very eyes is Paul McCartney, missing teenager of the moment and presumed dead by the lads. John is a mix of emotions. At first he’s relieved and rather joyful to see Paul again. Then he’s confused, doesn’t know why Paul hasn’t bothered trying to find him or talk to him for the past two weeks, then he’s just mad that Paul felt the need to disappear without a trace.

John stops dead in his tracks, watches as Paul hands a bag of chips to a boy that looks similar to him, but younger. His throat feels dry and there’s an incredible fire spreading across his body as he realises just how _angry_  he is at Paul for abandoning him, for leaving him with nothing for two weeks straight. He hesitates for a moment, decides fuck it, he deserves some fucking answers.

“And here I was thinking something bad had happened to you,” John starts as he storms over to Paul quickly, feet stomping dramatically as he walks. Paul’s eyes shoot open, his mouth hangs agape and he grabs at the collar on his shirt, pulling it down slightly.

“John-“

“Turns out you’re just bored of _me_ ,” John interrupts, remark bold and accusing. He crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Paul freeze up momentarily. The boy he’s with looks between them, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Paul frowns down at the other lad, flicking his ear with his thumb and his finger.

“Tell dad I’ve gone George’s. You can have all the chips, and I’ll give you a quid when I get home if you don’t say anything about John,” Paul bargains. The boy next to him, his brother, taps his chin dramatically, like he's deep in thought. Paul sighs.

"Mike can you just be nice this one fucking time, please?" Paul practically begs.

"Three quid," Mike states flatly. "And you can make me a bru when you get home," he adds. Paul pulls at his own hair, eyes widening frantically as he panics between choosing to comply to Mike and all of his demands or abandoning John without an explanation, again. John watches the two siblings with narrowed eyes. He's not really feeling this, not when he's just spent two weeks going out of his mind over the very person in front of him currently.

"Right, fucking hell! Fine!" Paul yells. Mike smirks up at him, glances at John with curious eyes but doesn't say anything. After a moment of silence, he turns on his heel and starts to walk away. Paul turns back to John, face falling into a sad and guilty expression, one that just makes John angrier. He doesn’t need Paul’s _guilt_.

“John, I’m so sorry. My dad, he-“

“I’ve not seen you for two bloody weeks, Paul,” John states flatly, eyes narrowing as he stares the other boy down. Paul’s mouth snaps shut, and he closes his eyes in irritation at being interrupted again but John doesn’t care. He’s been left hanging for two weeks and if Paul can’t handle a little bit of heat then he shouldn’t have done it in the first place. “Everyone’s been asking about you. I’ve had to sit in Pete’s air raid shelter, just kept saying ‘I dunno’ every day when they’d ask where you were,” John continues. Paul narrows his eyes back at him, brow pulling together. Now he looks more like Jim, John thinks.

“You should have known I was grounded. Only got my freedom back today and you’re gonna ruin it again if I’m caught with you,” Paul attempts to joke, but his tone of voice isn’t very humorous and John doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile. He shakes his head, uncrossing his arms as they fall to his sides.

“...The last time I saw you I heard your dad smack you,” John says quietly, looking down to the floor. He sees Paul shift his weight from where he can see his legs and his shoes. He feels his cheeks heat up as his next words linger on the tip of his tongue before tumbling out in an embarrassingly vulnerable tone of voice. “I was worried about you...” John trails off. When he glances up, he sees Paul with a small smile on his face, eyes soft and dark brown and John feels himself deflate.

The anger and hurt in him subsides itself quickly, quicker than it ever has with anybody else who has hurt him in his life. But it’s Paul, and Paul is the only person that leaves him swimming in a smoggy bed of confused emotions and dizzy uncertainty as he continues to change the way John acts and feels, so he doesn’t find it surprising that Paul has become the person who calms his stormy seas quicker than anybody else.

“You soft git,” Paul chuckles, taking a step towards John and closing the majority of the distance placed between them. John smiles back shyly at him, feels his heart flutter as he thinks about the last time they were stood outside the chippy alone together. He thinks briefly about the handkerchief, wonders if it’s currently in Paul’s pocket.

He looks at Paul closer then, thinking about the slap. It was so incredibly loud and it most definitely will have killed. John grimaces as he searches Paul’s face in an attempt to find any evidence left on his skin of what happened.

“...Where did he hit you?” John asks. Paul rolls his eyes, squirming slightly as he scratches the back of his neck and averts his gaze. He opens his mouth, as if to protest, but it’s like he thinks better of it. He already knows John, knows he won’t give up without a fight, or just plain won’t give up. Instead, he lifts the hand that was scratching at his neck and places his index finger briefly on his right cheek. John frowns, looks down at his own hands and remembers how badly they were shaking, remembers how hard he fought not to race back upstairs and punch the fuck out of Paul’s dad.

Without giving himself time to dwell on it, John scrunches his hand up into a fist and raises his knuckles to his lips. He kisses softly, reaches out and brushes the same knuckles against Paul’s cheek, grazing the skin with where he had kissed his own hand. Paul’s cheeks heat up under his touch, his skin turning hot and red but Paul keeps his gaze bravely locked with John’s, let’s him continue to ghost his knuckle over Paul’s cheek silently. It’s all of the things John can’t say to him - ‘I’m sorry I didn’t do more, I’m sorry I left you alone with him, I’m sorry I got you in trouble, I’ve missed you, I’m glad you’re back’ - all of the things his fragile pride would never let him voice out loud, especially not to Paul. He wonders what would happen if somebody was to walk by and catch them like this. Would people think they were a pair of queers? John’s not as disgusted by the thought of people thinking he’s in love with Paul as he is disgusted by the thought of somebody hurting Paul because they think he’s in love with John - which John knows he definitely isn’t.

He remembers suddenly where he was supposed to be going before he ran into Paul, before his brain turned upside down as it always does whenever he spends a moment with Paul. He pushes his knuckles into Paul’s skin, feels himself press into his cheekbone as Paul smiles at him. When he pulls his hand away, he can see the smile on Paul’s face falter and eventually fade.

“I’ve got to go,” he breathes out a sigh. He didn’t want to leave Paul, didn’t know when or if he was going to see him again. He still had a lot of explaining to do, but for now it was enough to know he’s safe.

“Where?” Paul asks quietly. He sounds like a child, full of confusion and an almost hurt tone, like he’s afraid John is going to abandon him. Which John thinks is ironic, considering the last two weeks of radio silence he’s just had to endure.

“Stu-“

“Oh...” Paul interrupts before John even finishes getting out his full name. He looks down, hair falling into his face. John thinks it’s getting long, but it doesn’t look bad. Just messy, unkempt but in a way that Paul can pull off. John clears his throat, feels tense and awkward ever since he mentioned he’s due at Stuart’s.

“It’s my birthday on Saturday. You’re coming my mum’s for it, aren’t you?” John asks, practically pleading. Paul nods his head, keeps his eyes to the floor as he does.

“Yeah, course,” he says. “I best not keep you. Stuart calls, and that,” he looks up finally, waving his hand in the air and keeping his gaze everywhere but John’s face.

“I’ll see you, then? Saturday?” John asks, watches Paul nod his head slowly. “Promise?” he asks again. Paul chuckles, nods his head again as his eyes finally meet John’s. He makes a cross over his heart with his index finger, smirks at John.

“I promise, you daft bastard,”

 

  
John is drunk.

His mum’s house is crawling with teenagers. His mates, close and not so close, are crowded around everywhere as records blast from the living room. The place stinks of booze and sweat and cigarette smoke, and there are people dancing and shouting and talking everywhere. It’s a little bit overwhelming, but John is here and so is everybody else, and they seem to be enjoying it. He’s not sure the same could be said about himself, though.

He’s stood in the kitchen with Stuart, watching his lips as they wrap around the top of his beer bottle and he takes a swig. Paul hasn’t turned up, and John is projecting his hurt into his alcohol, and Stuart’s pretty face and pretty lips.

“He said he’d be here. It’s only eight,” Stuart says calmly, voice even and reassured. John just scoffs, rolls his eyes and takes another drink of his beer. Stuart grabs John’s bottle, his hand lying on top of John’s as he struggles against him, lowering the bottle after John relents finally. “You might want to lay off for a bit, Johnny,” he warns, tightening his grip on the bottle, and John’s hand.

“Yer not my fucking mam,” John snaps. Stuart doesn’t react to the comment, just keeps trying to pull the bottle away from John. Searching his face angrily, John’s eyes trail downwards until they stop at a spot on Stuart’s collarbone where his skin has been exposed. Just under the bone is the phrase ‘ _Kaiserkeller, 1960_ ’ tucked neatly in a slanted, narrow font. John stares at the mark for longer than he probably should, long enough that Stuart lets go of the bottle to place a hand over the words, neck flushing in colour.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his t shirt back up around his neck so that it isn’t baggy anymore. John doesn’t remember why Stuart’s apologising.

“It looks German,” John says finally, stupidly. Stuart nods, fingers tracing delicately over the words.

“I think it is,” he agrees. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he asks after a moment, reaching out to grab John’s hand. John watches helplessly as their fingers briefly, messily, interlace. It’s clunky and awkward and they just don’t _fit_  one another, but he obliges and lets Stuart guide his fingers up to his collar bone. He slips John’s hand underneath the top of his shirt, let’s his fingers trace the words like his own were doing a few seconds before. John gets what he means, then. Stuart’s skin has been raised, like the words are coming out of his flesh. It feels like touching the back of a piece of paper that has writing on it, where you can feel each individual word popping out. John squints, thinking. His mark doesn’t feel like that.

“...I don’t know...I don’t think so...” John trails off, retracting his hand from under Stuart’s shirt. He interlaces their fingers again, drags Stuart’s hand down to his own mark and lets the other boy wrap his hand around his forearm briefly to balance himself from a person who flies by the two fast, barging into them. And then Stuart is stroking up and down John’s arm, giving him goosebumps as he feels John’s mark. He watches as Stuart begins to frown down at the words in front of him.

“John...” He says quietly, almost inaudible over everything else going on around them. “...This is a bloke’s handwriting,” he finally says, pulling John’s arm up to his eyes, squinting at the words through his glasses lenses. John splutters, almost chokes on his own spit as he thrashes his arm in an attempt to make Stuart let go.

“Piss off,” he says seriously, thrashes his arm again but Stuart just tightens his grip to the point it burns his skin. Stuart holds him in his place, looks back to him with his lips pulled into a tight line. It’s as if something clicks inside of his head, as John watches his mouth fall open and shut repeatedly. But then his expression settles, settles on one that’s been put together to appear calm but it’s so fake, and John is so scared that Stuart is going to start something with him over his revelation.

“You can’t even tell. You can’t tell from a person’s writing,” John rushes out, stumbling over his words in his drunken haze and panicked state. Stuart says nothing back to him, just continues to stare as John descends into a downward spiral before his very eyes. Stuart can’t tell. No one can tell. That’s not how it works, is it? You can’t know what someone is from their handwriting. That’s fucking potty, isn’t it?

“I-It can’t be...a lad’s handwriting...” John struggles, stammering and pausing as he tries to say the sentence out loud. Stuart just hums, relaxing his vice-like grip. He looks back down to John’s mark, traces the words again with his fingers slowly and softly.

N....E....R...K...

“Do you want it to be?” Stuart asks after a beat of silence. As John opens his mouth to scream, to shout, to sock Stuart in his stupid fucking pretty face, he hears someone call his name from the kitchen door. When he turns his head, he falls back into the familiar warmth of brown upon brown. Only, this brown is deep and dark but not in a good way as Paul’s eyes lock onto John, stood in the corner with Stuart, who has his hand wrapped around his arm and is tracing the words written on John’s skin like they’re caught up in an intimate embrace with one another. John supposes they are, to a certain extent. Paul doesn’t even say a word to John, to Stuart, just leaves the room.

John doesn’t know the answer to Stuart’s question.

 

  
Paul’s barely spoke to him all night, barely even been in the same room as him and John’s been chasing him through each room since his conversation with Stuart came to an abrupt end. But every time John worms his way through all of the people to get to Paul’s side, Paul worms his way back into the crowd and into another room and John loses him.

He feels defeated, and confused and all he wants to do at this point is call it a night and walk home. He’s sat on the wall outside of Julia’s house, came out with the intentions of having a quick cigarette but he realises he doesn’t even want one. He just wants to escape for a few minutes.

“Are you feeling alright, love?” comes Julia’s voice, soft and caring. John watches as she sits herself down next to him, as she wraps an arm around his neck and pulls him into her side. John wants to say yes, wants to brush it all under the rug and forget about it all. But he can’t. Stuart’s words keep looping around inside of his head and he can’t shake the uneasy feeling settling into his bones like a cancer, infectious and spreading painfully. He pulls back, looks down at her ankle to see the scrawl on the bone. ‘ _Silly, lovely_ ’, written small and wide in a neat, precise line.

“Is it dad’s handwriting?”

“What are you on about, you daft bugger?” Julia giggles, hitting him softly in his chest. John smiles back instinctively, but it falls quickly.

“Your mark,” he explains, points a finger downwards towards her ankle. Julia follows his finger, looks down at her own mark and sighs.

“Oh, I don’t know John. It’s been years since I last saw his writing-“

“Is it dad’s?” he repeats, voice firm. Julia hesitates, eyes cast downwards onto her own skin as John searches her face intensely with his own.

“Yes...” she says quietly. She looks at him curiously, then. Briefly glancing down at his mark as she watches him, John decides now is as good a time as any.

“Stuart said he thinks mine is a bloke’s handwriting. Isn’t that daft?” John jokes weakly, forcing a little chuckle but it’s so painfully obvious, shows in the hollow sound that escapes his throat. His mother simply hums, staring into his eyes earnestly.

“Is it?” she counters. John is stunned into silence by her reaction. He had expected her to laugh along, to reassure him that Stuart was being ridiculous, that John was going to find himself a lovely woman to spend the rest of his life with. It’s what he expected to hear her say, so why did he feel a sense of relief that she didn’t?

“But it’s illegal. It’s wrong,” John whispers, like just the mention of it out loud is something inherently wrong. Julia just snorts, face contorting into a grimace as she shakes her head at him.

“There’s nothing wrong about love, John,” she says simply. He takes her statement in, let’s it sink into his skin and his blood and his muscles and his bones slowly, layer by layer as it continues to hit him over and over again. He’d never really thought about what made it so wrong - he was just conditioned into believing it was. But his mum had worded it so simply, had derailed his mindset so fast. Even Stuart didn’t seem to feel so hostile towards the idea, because he hadn’t mocked or hurt John for his lack of response before in the kitchen. But John can still see his face, careful and guarded with a secret behind his eyes that he refused to share - but it felt like the secret was about John and that wasn’t fair, that he wasn’t willing to let him know what he was really thinking.

“If you care about someone, if you really love someone, you should tell them,” Julia starts, grabbing John’s hand in her own and tracing his knuckles with her fingers. John looks up at her, eyes wide and full of feelings pooling together that he doesn’t want to face. He’s never seen his mum so wise, so full of passion and raw emotion and it’s bringing out an entirely new side of him that he snuffs out every time it tries to show itself.

“People are ignorant and the world is unkind, but it won’t be like this forever. I know it won’t,” her eyes are sparkling in the darkness and John can see the hope there. It’s a hope that spreads to him, too. He didn’t know his mother felt this way, but he thinks that now he does know its made him love her just that little bit more.

He could never expect to have a conversation like this with Mimi. She’s such a square, so set in her old fashioned ways and ideals that he’s too scared to show her his mark, never mind even talk to her about it.

John uncurls his hand, laces their fingers together and gives her a little _squeeze_ , which she mirrors back to him. She smiles softly, a warmth that infects his whole body and shoots into his veins. There’s something about the way she’s looking at him that makes him think her view on him has changed. But it’s not bad, it’s not judgemental or mean or cruel - it’s understanding. Maybe she understands him more now than ever. With a final squeeze of his hand, Julia pulls him up.

“It’s freezing, let’s get back inside aye?” she asks. John nods his head, doesn’t let go of her hand as he leads her back into the house and back into the party.

 

  
He spots Paul stood over the record player, face grumpy as he pretends to listen to a girl that’s currently trying to talk to him. He’s not even looking at her, he’s reading the pile of vinyl’s he has in his hand and only giving short responses to her. John watches him for a few moments, until he feels his fingers lose their grip on his mother’s.

He glances at her, sees he’s been caught staring at Paul by her yet again, like always. She doesn’t say anything as his cheeks take colour, doesn’t ridicule or mock him. She smiles, small and shy just like his own, before slipping back into the crowd. John watches her saunter over to Bobby and pull him into her embrace, the two locking lips in a long kiss. John averts his gaze, feels like he’s looking at something he shouldn’t be and ignores the dull pang of his heart as he realises he hasn’t been intimate with a girl for almost five months now. Hasn’t really felt the desire to, in all honesty. His brain has other distractions.

He looks back to where he previously saw Paul and catches the younger boy already staring at him. Paul busies himself suddenly, looks back down to the records in his hands and analyses their covers closely, like they’re the most interesting thing in the universe. He crosses the room, smiles politely and gives short, grateful thanks to those who engage him in their celebration. He stands over Paul, music so loud he can barely even hear himself think. It’s not like it matters anyway, because his brain is undoubtedly just screaming Paul’s name in an endless loop like it always does whenever he’s around.

“Happy birthday, and that,” Paul shouts over the music, voice aloof and unbothered. John grimaces, thinks about how that’s definitely not how _his_  Paul sounds. But if he wants to do this again, John is more than happy to play along.

“Cheers, mard arse,” John shouts back. When Paul looks up at him finally, John is smirking, glad to have gotten under his skin and caused a reaction. Paul opens his mouth but John isn’t sure he even says anything, can’t hear him over Screamin’ Jay Hawkins blaring down his ear.

“Can’t hear a thing,” John yells apologetically, gesturing at his ears with his hands. Paul’s jaw hardens in irritation, but he thinks he’s not mad at John; just the situation. He reaches out, places his hand at the nape of Paul’s neck and leans into him. “Come on,” he shouts, watching as Paul places the records down and he begins leading him out of the living room and into the hallway. As they linger at the door frame, John glancing around to see how many people are out there, he lowers his hand, tracing down from the bottom of Paul’s neck all the way to the bottom of his back, hand resting just above the curve of Paul’s arse. His hand feels like it’s made of pure molten lava, he feels so hot, and he can already feel the sweat building in his palm and undeniably beginning to soak into Paul’s untucked jumper.

But fuck it - he’s _drunk_  and that’s as good excuse as any to be overly touchy, grabbing things that don’t belong to him and clinging to them whilst he can, whilst he’s stupidly confident enough to not care about the possibility of being throttled for being too friendly.

John starts walking again, pushing Paul gently in front of him as he takes him to the staircase. He lets go of Paul, walks halfway up it before sitting himself down on one of the steps. Paul looks at him like he’s mad for choosing such a peculiar spot to sit and have a chat. John supposes he is, a little bit. Paul sits down slowly, a step below John as he sits sideways and leans his head back against the wall.

“I’m gonna have to get off soon-“ Paul starts at the same time as John.

“Where were you?” John blurts out. Confusion whirls in Paul’s eyes as he clenches his teeth. John really should stop interrupting him so much, but he can’t help it. Paul just keeps leaving him with so many questions lately. It’s hard.

“I had to tell my dad I was at George’s. He doesn’t want me hanging about with you,” Paul finally admits. He pulls his jumper sleeves over his hands, lets his fingers poke out of the top as he looks away from John nervously. “...I’m on thin ice...” Paul trails off. John tuts, watches as Paul starts to frown at him and his lack of consideration.

“Don’t tut at me,” Paul warns, voice firm. “Y’know, I miss you too, John...I miss all the lads...I miss playing guitar and I miss pissing about with you all. But my dad is still really mad at me, and I can’t just put everything on the line for _you_ -“

“I’m not asking you to,” John says angrily. They’re both locked in each other’s gaze, both frowning angrily at each other. John didn’t get it - he hasn’t said anything of the like, so where did Paul pluck that shite from, the air? “You’re supposed to be a part of the band, Paul. And you didn’t show up for two weeks,” John scolds. He thought this was their dream, their band. But now it’s like Paul doesn’t care about it anymore, like he doesn’t care about John.

“Well you’ve got plenty of other people to fill in for me,” Paul mumbles, turning his head away from John. That stings, like he’s been slapped on his heart. They had spent all this time planning their lives as musicians, promising each other the world through their music and now Paul’s over the dream.

“So, what? That’s it? You wanna quit?” John says hurriedly, voice raised and eyes wide. That must be the reason Paul has been avoiding him then. He just didn’t have the heart to say it, just like everyone else. He was bored of John, tired of their friendship already after a few months together and how could John have been so stupid to fall for this trick again-

“Christ John, you’re not listening to me,” Paul says, eyes squinting as he stares at John like he’s an idiot. He reaches out, waves his hand in front of John’s face who just looks back at him, unimpressed.

“Will you pack it in and shut your big fucking mouth for a minute?” Irritation seeping from his voice, Paul continues to stare at John until he closes his mouth.

“I’m not saying any of that, so stop being dramatic. All I’m saying is, I’ve got to be careful. If my dad finds out I’ve been with you again he’ll take my guitar away. He won’t let me be mates with you. So I’m trying to be clever about it, Y’see, because I don’t wanna lose you,” Paul explains, voice frantic as he struggles to get his words out right. John feels his heart constrict, feels a pull at his strings and his frown softens and melts away quickly. Paul’s does too, replacing it with a playful smirk. “So can you stop being a dickhead now?” he reaches his finger out and pokes John’s chest, staring up at him.

John huffs out dramatically, grinning down at him as he suddenly grabs Paul’s shoulders and starts tipping him backwards. Paul lets out a yell of pure horror, tries to pull himself back up but John continues to hold him, tipping him slowly.

“Are you gonna say sorry for abandoning me?” John asks, voice feigning innocence. Paul hits his chest hard with his fist, continues thrashing against him.

“Pack it in!” Paul begs, eyes blown open in fear as John continues to tip him backwards.

“If you carry on moving like that I’ll end up dropping you,” John hums, briefly lets go of Paul and watches with amusement as Paul’s eyes fly open even wider as he begins to fall backwards, only to be caught by John again a second later.

“Right! Right! Fucking hell, I’m sorry Johnny!” Paul yells, laughing nervously. John pulls him back up, keeps his hands on his shoulders as he pulls him into his chest and wraps an arm around his neck. From their different spots on the stairs, Paul’s head is able to rest against John’s chest easily. He hugs him loosely, arm slung over him sloppily as he rests his chin on the top of Paul’s head. It’s weird, he thinks, how Paul fits under his arm and into his body like a missing puzzle piece. He wonders if he tried to hold Paul’s hand, would it feel the same as Stuart’s? Ill fitted, awkward, wrong. It’s wrong anyway, for him to even think about wanting to hold Paul’s hand, even if it’s simply to satisfy his own curiosity. Julia might be alright with it all, with queers and boys that bugger each other, but the world is not. And John’s not sure if he is or not.

There’s one thing he can’t deny, as he sits, chin resting on top of Paul’s head, in Paul’s brown locks, as Paul snuggles his cheek into John’s chest and hums quietly along to The McGuires Sister’s ‘Sincerely’ blasting from the living room, murmuring the lyrics into John’s shirt.

“ _Oh, you know how I love you..._ ”

There’s one thing he can’t deny, as he listens to a voice that melts his heart every time he hears it, as he realises he’d rather be cooped up, cramped on this stair case embracing Paul than in the heart of that party being thrown for none other than himself just in the next room, full of all of his family and closest, best friends. He’d rather be here with Paul than with anybody else, anywhere else, in the world.

“ _I’ll do anything for you..._ ”

And it’s that Paul has wormed his way so far into John’s heart he isn’t sure he has much space for anybody else there, now. Stuart comes close, but John is still so painfully, irresponsibly at Paul’s mercy, at Paul’s beckoning hand. It isn’t right - he has never felt this way about another lad before, not any of his other, old best friends. Paul is the only one, the newfound centre of his universe.

Maybe if he’s the only lad John feels this intensely for, he might be able to live with it. Might be able to smother it until he falls back into the same category as everybody else on John’s priority list.

“ _Please say you’ll be mine..._ ”

But as deep brown eyes meet hazel, as Paul smiles up at him through half lids, with hair that’s been tussled from John leaning in it for the past minute or so, John isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to change the way he sees Paul. He’s something so beautiful, something so incredible in John’s eyes and he’s just not quite sure he’ll ever get over a piece of art like Paul when he’s dangled in front of John’s face like this almost constantly. Finally, shaking his thoughts, John smiles back down at Paul, tries to forget about the way his heart pounds and skips inside of him every moment he spends with Paul.


	11. rush goes to the head and it's all perception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything has been really mad for me lately and i've been struggling to keep up with it all. i'm so sorry for not updating.  
> i haven't wrote for this story for a while but my muse and inspiration has found itself again.  
> i'm officially on my summer break now, so updates should start to pick up again hopefully!! thank you all for your patience!!
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'young' by the paper kites

“Nervous?”

Paul is practically shaking like a leaf backstage and the rest of the boys are biting back their giggles and tormenting comments on account of John giving them all daggers with his eyes every time a laugh starts to trickle from one of their lips.

Paul just nods his head silently, fingers fumbling over his suit jacket shakily as he tries to collect himself. John’s heart aches as he watches him, his face faltering into a sympathetic expression. He feels so _bad_  that Paul is so nervous.

It’s his first time performing on stage, and his debut as the newest member of The Quarrymen. It’s not anything special - the venue isn’t massive and the crowd consists of mostly their own friends, like always. Yet Paul is still daunted and struggling to accept that in less than three minutes he’ll be on stage, performing with the rest of the lads.

“He’s fucking shitting it!” Colin laughs.

John gives him a _look_ , feels his own eyes burning holes that blister into Colin’s skin painfully, angry at his insensitive comment. Colin’s smile falls quickly.

Eric and Len are fucking about in the toilets, trying to fix their hair last second to ensure they look absolutely perfect for their performance. It’s pointless, John thinks, because they’ll all just end up ruining their stylised hairdos when they’re up on stage moving erratically and sweating to the point whatever hair they have on their head is going to find itself stuck to their foreheads. But if it keeps them busy, and keeps them from being annoying and keeps them from trying to make Paul feel even worse then it’s fine by him for them to waste their time doing that.

“Uhh...I’m gonna go grab the lads,” Colin excuses himself, feeling uncomfortable from being the subject of John’s authoritative, disapproving scowl. When he leaves the room, John turns back to Paul, whose face is paling evermore as time ticks by. John’s face softens again, and he finds himself wanting to reach out and hug Paul as tightly as he can, wants to provide his body as a shield from all of the danger - but he doesn’t think that would be appropriate. He racks his brain for something to say, something encouraging and something he knows will make Paul feel better.

“Paul..?” John starts. Paul’s eyes finally meet his, the clouded haze in his iris’ parting as he focuses himself again. He hums out in response, looking at John curiously.

“I appear to have lost my map,” John says, voice exaggerating his words to sound posh. Paul blinks, stares at him like he’s absolutely lost his mind, but he continues to listen, continues to let John talk. “I have lost my map and seem to have no direction...So tell me, sir...” John grins, and drops his accent for his next words. “Where are we going?” he asks playfully.

Paul’s eyes light up, then, sudden understanding dawning on his face. He rolls his eyes, but the grin on his lips tells John he doesn’t mean it.

“It appears we’re heading to a place called the toppermost, my good man,” Paul replies with his own posh accent. John gasps, loud and exaggerated.

“The toppermost? You don’t mean-“

“I do mean. The toppermost of the-“

“Poppermost,” John breathes out, chuckling. Paul grins back at him, chews the skin at this bottom lip as he does whenever he’s anxious, but his body seems to have relaxed a little, which is good. He doesn’t look so distracted anymore, head no longer in the clouds but a little bit closer to the ground - John likes the idea of himself being the tether keeping Paul closer to the floor, ensuring he doesn’t float back off into space again.

“You’ll be great, Paulie,” John reassures, reaches a hand out to softly chuck Paul under his chin. Paul bats his hand away, like John is his mother fussing over him and he’s a frustrated child.

“What if I forget my solo? Or...I forget the words?” Paul asks after a moment of silence, gaze dropping to the floor as he continues to tear at the skin on his lips with his teeth.

“They won’t mind,” John says softly. Paul doesn’t move his eyes from the floor. John sighs quietly, frustrated that Paul isn’t listening to him. He tries again.

“Do you remember when we first met?” He asks quietly. Paul says nothing back, John isn’t sure he even heard him speak. He frowns, puts his fingers under Paul’s chin again and very gently lifts his face up so that they’re staring at each other once more. Paul hesitates, eyes frantically moving as he studies John’s face closely. He nods reluctantly, making John drop his frown. “Do you remember when I was on stage? I was singing ‘Come Go With Me’, wasn’t I?” John prods, keeps his fingers placed on Paul’s chin. His skin is soft and there’s a slight peach fuzz beginning to grow there. Paul nods again, a tiny nervous smile breaking out finally, but still a smile nonetheless. John mirrors it back to him without even realising.

“You barely knew the words...” Paul teases lightly. John nods his head, raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘there you go!’ to the younger boy.

“I barely knew the words,” he repeats, nods his head again in agreement. “But people still liked it. Nobody said anything about it...Well, not until now, you cheeky git,” John teases back, grabs at Paul’s chin with his thumb and tugs it lightly. Paul scoffs, but lets his face be pulled closer to John’s obediently.

“ _Come go with me...down to the penitentiary,_ ” Paul says with a low voice, mocking the words that John had sung that day. John takes a moment, surprised that Paul had even remembered what he had sung. It makes his heart pound with a fluffy feeling that clings to his insides. He’s not sure why Paul would even remember that tiny, insignificant detail about him but he’s sure glad that he did because it makes John feel _so_  important. It makes him feel like the most important person in the world in this moment. John’s own lips fall into a soft smile, oozing with a gentle affection towards the boy in front of him. Paul mirrors his smile, gaze dropping from John’s eyes down to his lips and it makes John’s breath hitch in his throat, a mangled, pathetic whimper flying off of his tongue before he has time to stop it.

“Plenty of time to bum each other later, we’re on,” Eric remarks from the doorway.

John darts his eyes from Paul to the three new emerging lads, releasing his hold on Paul’s chin finally. As they cross the room to get to the back of the stage, Len pats John on the back harshly, jolting him forward and knocking him into Paul. The younger of the two grunts, gently leans John back up and off of him. John lets himself be moved, is still processing the comment that was made by Eric. There’s that creeping fear again, that thought that makes his lungs feel as though they’re suffocating - it’s not that people might think he is queer, it’s that people might think Paul is queer for him that scares him the most. Because Paul isn’t queer and Paul doesn’t see him like that.

He could lose Paul so incredibly easily over these comments, even if they’re just his friends poking fun.

John frowns anyway, has to play up to the role of being defensive about it all, even if his heart isn’t in it anymore. He springs himself backwards from Paul with haste, latches onto the back of Len as the boys make their way onto the stage finally.

 

  
It turns out that Paul’s anxiety wasn’t justified, just as John had told him. Because the crowd was eating up the back and forth banter between John and Paul, was eating up their ability as a group to play music - which seemed to be a lot better now that the group had changed to slightly more talented musicians. John finds himself searching for Paul's eyes, taking in the appearance of Paul as he performs - hair slicked back with sweat, that suit that's a little too small in all of the right places that makes John's heart constrict painfully. Even when his voice cracks, he still manages to make it work. He's perfect, a vision illuminated by harsh, crappy stage lights and John hopes that's the kind of angel he lays eyes upon before he dies - soft voice, melodic humming and lyrics and big brown eyes.

Their gig was over before they even knew it, and as the boys emerged from backstage, still slightly sweaty but changed into their regular clothes again, John watches as Colin, Len and Eric disperse themselves into the crowd.

 

John reaches a hand out towards Paul, to touch his shoulder and congratulate him on his debut, but he retracts it when the other boy’s eyes light up at somebody else before them. John falters, confused and a little surprised that somebody other than himself was on the receiving end of that expression.

“George!” Paul yells, jolting himself forward into the arms of _that_  boy. That boy that was always hanging around Paul at school, that boy that made John’s heart sink and blood boil suddenly, not like he had ever done before. He watches them both, laughing and embracing each other. _George_  starts talking to Paul quickly, excitedly with compliments as he praises just how well Paul played. Paul bats his eyelashes back at him, grinning and shaking his head in that modest way that Paul does when he isn’t sure how to take a compliment, all shy smiles and pink cheeks.

John frowns, watching them both edge closer as people begin to come between himself and the two boys. How did he even get in here? He looked like an actual child, for Christ’s sake. John finds himself blurring into the background, as Paul and George walk away from him and to the front door of the venue. He feels totally and completely abandoned for the first time, feels like an afterthought. No, even less than that. Paul hadn’t even realised he was trailing next to him, had he?

“Here he is! The next Chuck Berry,” he hears Stuart’s voice call out before he sees him. John blinks once, twice, as the world settles again before his eyes, like waiting for the aftermath of a violent storm to inspect the damage. Except everything around him is fine, it’s just his insides that are wrecked. Particularly his heart.

He tries to smother the crushing feeling building in his stomach at being ignored by Paul, instead focuses himself onto his other friend in a desperate attempt of a distraction. He turns his body towards the voice, forces a smile and bows exaggeratedly at Stuart, who laughs back at him and bows as well. Then Stuart walks forward, slings an arm around John’s shoulder and leads him to a table where there’s a number of people sat around, empty and full glasses of beers in front of them all.

“Bill, Rod, Margaret, Cynthia,” Stuart states as he points around the table to the people sitting there. John had met Bill and Rod many times before, had only spoken to Margaret a handful of times but she was quite close to the boys, close enough to Stuart that they keep talking about moving in together in a new flat since Stuart’s current roommate is causing him a bit of trouble, so he already knows she’s alright.

As his eyes swoop over the people sat at the table, he lingers on the new, unknown girl, who eyes him shyly, with a bashful smile. He smiles back at her, but he’s not really feeling it tonight. He’s not really feeling girls in general lately, as much as he tries to ignore it. Nevertheless, he sits himself down at the empty chair and engages in conversation with them for the duration of the night, even if he does it half-heartedly.

 

It takes him six pints before he’s drunk.

 

  
“I’ve seen you before,” John slurs, leaning forwards to squint down at Cynthia. She rolls her eyes back at him.

“I should hope so. I’m on your course,” she giggles back, flipping her hair with her hand. John watches her fingers comb through golden strands like a wheat field, soft and flowing along with the air perfectly. The movement exposes her neck momentarily. He swallows.

“Ah,” he says simply, stupidly. Oops.

“John, get your equipment. We’re leaving,” Colin says, making his way over to the table. John simply glances at him, then waves his hand dismissively.

“Why can’t someone else do it?” he asks, voice irritated. Can’t everybody see he’s busy here?

“Stop being a twat, c’mon,” Colin scolds, folding his arms over his chest. John sighs, jaw hardening as he looks at the remaining people at the table - only Stuart and Cynthia decided to stay this late.

“Your rock and roll lifestyle calls,” Cynthia teases with a smirk. He chuckles back at her, finally pulling himself to stand up.

“I’ll see you around college, then,” he offers, shrugging his leather jacket on.

“If you can still remember my face,” Cynthia quips, smirk still present on her lips. John smiles, feels his chest fill with something, something exciting and new but familiar at the same time, like saying hello to an old friend. Finally - a girl he’s attracted to again. Maybe this whole Paul thing was just a phase, just something his brain fixated on because he hadn’t been with a girl for a while.

But then, he already knows whatever is beginning to brew between himself and Cynthia is not like what lies dormant underneath the conjoined body of _JohnandPaul_. It’s not as intense. Nothing is, he thinks.

And Cynthia was nice, and she was funny, and she was definitely beautiful. On the other hand...She also wasn’t his soul mate. He didn’t see her mark, but he knows him like he knows the back of his own hand, and the words etched into his skin meant nothing tonight. That doesn’t mean they couldn’t eventually learn to like each other, does it? She’s a decent girl, maybe she’s not bothered about marks. John tells himself he still doesn’t care about marks either, like always. It doesn’t feel right, though - like there’s a sort of expectation, no, _hope_  that he’s beginning to cling to where his soul mate is revealed to be somebody he already cares about. He doesn’t have the heart to keep starting again with people over and over, all for nothing. It’s exhausting and he’s definitely feeling that be reinforced tonight.

He always cared about people more than they cared about him - thought Paul was the exception, thought that Paul cared about him just as much. He was wrong. Because Paul cared about _George_ , not John.

“We haven’t got all fucking day, the driver’s not stopping,” Len complains from the doorway to the back of the stage, jostling John from his thoughts. John huffs out a frustrated sigh, but still complies. He walks sloppily, body sluggish from being intoxicated until he reaches Len. He momentarily falls into the wall, tries to play it off as leaning intentionally as he attempts to regain his balance and grasp on reality. Len just snorts, shaking his head at his friend.

John can hear laughter from somewhere, turns his head to set his sights upon Paul and _George_  deep in some kind of animated conversation just a little further up the narrow hallway, as Paul’s hands wriggle erratically like he’s telling a complicated story - he isn’t, because John knows that Paul just makes a lot of hand gestures regardless of how interesting the story he’s telling is, but all of his stories are interesting to John, anyway. George is laughing along, struggling for breath as he listens and occasionally murmurs something back that makes Paul break off into a grin or a smile or a giggle.

It definitely shouldn’t, but it _hurts_  for him to watch another person be captivated by Paul’s atmosphere, to see somebody else orbit his personal little sunshine. Without Paul by his side, without Paul’s attention on him John can feel himself sinking into a darkness that’s cold and unforgiving. It’s not right that he finds himself so insulted and low just because Paul is giving somebody that isn’t himself a piece of his time and focus. It’s downright pathetic and John knows it.

“You’ve got a right face on ya, you know,” Len comments casually, voice low as he attempts to whisper. John just narrows his eyes, looks down at him with his nose.

“I haven’t,” John spits back defensively, guard rising on instinct. His eyes trail back slowly towards Paul and George momentarily, and he watches in almost complete horror as Len follows his gaze.

Cover has been blown.

He hesitates, tension filling his body as his eyes meet John’s after what feels like forever.

“What, are yer jealous of George?” Len asks playfully, raising an eyebrow. He’s joking. He thinks it’s a joke. John knows it’s not. He tuts angrily.

“Behave,” He says sternly, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from Len and instead moving his body so that he’s facing George’s back.

“What’s wrong, Winston?” Len tries again, confusion and worry evident as he taps his hand on John’s shoulder. John shrugs him off, raises his top lip like a territorial dog as he continues to watch George and Paul.

“Will you pack it in? Yer actin’ like a bird,” John says angrily, refusing to look Len in the eye as he speaks with harsh words and a sharp tongue.

“I’m jus’ trying to help, Johnny-“

“I didn’t ask you to though, did I?” John interrupts, beginning to raise his voice. George and Paul halt their conversation and turn to see what’s happening. John catches Paul’s eyes for a second, sees the way Paul is looking at him like a concerned parent whose child is acting up and embarrassing them in front of all of the other parents. It’s a look of pity, not a look of compassion, he tells himself.

John forces himself up from the wall, stumbles forwards a couple of steps before picking up his guitar case where it rests by his feet. He almost trips over it, but manages to lug himself back up in time before it can happen. Feeling sorry for himself, he changes one last glance towards Paul before heading out towards to driver.

Paul is already staring at him, eyes dark and a fallen expression on his lips, even with George still talking to him.

The car ride home is awkward, as the boys squash themselves together in order to fit inside of the van. John sits next to Colin and ignores Paul the whole time - doesn't even look at him once. He stares down at his hands, mostly, frowning as he lets himself run around in circles in his head. He's confused. He's tired. He just wants to go home.


	12. turning in me, yearning in me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....well....hello everyone  
>  its been a while since i updated - thought everything would calm down. boy was i W R O N G  
> i write my fic on my phone and a drunken night now means my phone does not work. at all. i've been trying to write on my computer but i dunno, i'm struggling to find muse  
> however! i went to liverpool on tuesday and it inspired me a bit, seeing places and things that i could write about with the boys.  
> as usual, thank you all for your continued support! i'm going to reply to comments now, i'm sorry for not responding to anybody for such a long time. i appreciate you all so much and i'm so glad that you have stuck by me despite this terrible turn in update times<3
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'st clarity' by the paper kites

_John is stood, static, unable to move as he watches two figures in bed. His limbs feel sluggish and there’s pins and needles all over his body, just like last time._

_It’s almost pitch black, and he’s staring across the room at two bodies which are naked, with slithers of flesh poking out from the bed covers of their large king sized bed. One sits up, and to John’s complete horror, he realises the person he’s staring at is...himself - only he’s old. Really old Like, late 30s old._

_He’s a spectator, a fly on the wall. Neither people have reacted to his presence. There’s a woman, he realises finally, that’s lying beside his older self. She has long long long black hair, a seemingly endless trail that gets lost under the blanket they’re snuggled underneath, but John can’t really see much else. She’s considerably smaller than his older self, and she has dark eyes, almost black. That’s all he can make out. Older John lifts his bare arm up, and John realises there’s no mark on his arm. How could there be no mark on his arm?_

_“You look like a bloke,” Older John murmurs, leaning his body into the woman so that he is spooning her. She just giggles back at him._

_“Thanks,” she says sarcastically, her accent definitely foreign. Older John just breathes into her raven hair, sighing softly._

_“I mean it,” he says back simply, voice lazy and tired. She’s silent for a second._

_“I think you’re a closet fag, you know,” she laughs, breathless._

_Older John’s eyes fly open at the comment. His stare hardens and his brows pull together as he says nothing, body turning thick with tension._

_John wants to walk forward, to get a better look at himself-but-not and this mysterious woman who he’s sure he has never seen before in his life. Why doesn’t he have a mark? Why can’t he just fucking move?_

_“I think you’re too scared to sleep with a man, though,” she continues when the silence drags on._

_“...Not scared, no” he replies, turning to lie on his back. The woman turns herself over, then, so that she can stare at him as he talks with her head resting on the pillow. Older John glances at her and smiles, his mouth forming into a tight line._

_John hasn’t ever seen himself smile like that before, and it’s sad and unnerving how obviously fake it is to him, but how the woman he’s sharing a bed with seems none the wiser. He wonders, if this version of himself has been living through a fake happiness for a long time, if this woman who he is obviously close to can’t even tell. John’s stomach sinks at the thought._

_“I’d shag a guy...But, they’d have to be attractive,” Older John states. “Not just physically but mentally too,” he adds. The woman smiles softly at him, nods her head like she understands him completely, but she can’t because John can’t even understand this man properly, and this man is himself._

_“I thought, for a while...” The woman trails off. “...Maybe you and Paul...” she continues, giggling to herself._

_John is allowed to walk now, feels himself get thrown forwards with such great force he falls to the floor. His limbs aren’t so heavy, and the static inside of himself is wearing thinner to a point he can barely feel it. Scrambling, he pulls himself back up quickly and paces at the end of the bed, looking between the two people with his brows knitted together. He doesn’t want to lean out, doesn’t want to touch - just incase. Incase of what though, he isn’t sure. This world isn’t real, is it? These people, this place, this conversation - it’s all in his head. Isn’t it? So then, what was the risk?_

_Older John’s face has fallen as the woman’s eyes close as she continues laughing. He’s got some kind of manic expression on his face - eyes bright and a smile on his lips but he looks so tormented, and his eyes are filling up with tears. A little noise escapes his throat, like he’s being forced to laugh and being held at gunpoint. It’s pathetic and it’s downright terrifying for John to witness himself like this._

_What happened between him and Paul in this little world he’s made up? Why is he so upset at the mention of Paul’s name?_

_There’s no mark on Older John’s arm - maybe there are no soul mates, then. Maybe here there is no one who shares the other half of your soul and John is visibly very miserable and not meant to be with this woman who knows him but doesn’t seem to understand him. Even without a mark, John can see that this version of himself shouldn’t be with this woman. It’s not right._

_What’s even less right, is that John’s head immediately went to Paul when his older self said there is no man that fits his standards, because he knows Paul does. Because he is himself; and he knows if he was going to admit something like that out loud, he would be thinking of Paul as he said it - regardless of which world is what. But...This John, this miserable, old, haggard version of himself looks like he’s seen a ghost when he hears Paul’s name and that thought alone makes John feel sick with worry. He can’t imagine his life without Paul now, but it seems this version of himself has no other option. Has something bad happened to Paul? Is he...John can’t finish the thought._

_Everything feels lifeless, and it hurts to watch himself like this - miserable. John doesn’t want to be here anymore. He squeezes his eyes shut, continues to hear a woman giggling softly and the breath of Old John hitching and huffing, like he’s crying._

He wakes up in his room, relieved to be away from whatever it was he was witnessing back there. But he can't forget sad hazel eyes with deep bags staring widely at the ceiling, can't forget the shrieking giggles of a woman whose face he never had the chance to see.

 

  
John places three cups down delicately onto the coffee table, trying his hardest not to spill any or burn his hand in the process. Three is a difficult number for him to handle, especially when it’s three mugs of boiling hot liquid.

“Tah love,” Julia smiles up at him gratefully as he sets her mug down next to her. He does the same for Mimi but doesn’t get any kind of response - not like he’s bothered, he does this for her almost every day. He settles into his own seat, plonks himself down rather ungracefully next to his mother. If Mimi wasn’t here he’d happily lean back and slouch all over the settee, but he knows she’d just shout at him if he did. Instead, he settles on leaning back but not spreading himself out.

“Julia, you won’t be leaving anytime soon. It’s miserable out there,” Mimi tuts, gaze steadied on the window outside. John looks out, following her eye line. He grimaces at the sight of darkness and grey and rain. Just about typical of January weather up north. Julia makes a noise, a hum in agreement. She turns to John then, eyes dancing as she begins to beam at him.

“Any gigs coming up?” she asks. John glances at Mimi in time to see her roll her eyes and shake her head, but he doesn’t care. Mimi doesn’t get it, and he accepted that a long time ago. As long as she doesn’t physically stop him from being in his band, he doesn’t really mind what she thinks or has to say about it all. He nods his head at his mother.

“One in a couple of weeks,” he states proudly. His mum feigns a gasp, smiling like it’s the most exciting news she’s heard all year. Maybe it is. She supports John’s rock and roll career path, so who knows?

“What will this be? Paul’s second gig, then?” she prods, trying to continue the conversation. John hesitates. Why does she care how many times Paul’s played with the band? Paul wasn’t her son.

Something ugly pulls at the skin around his collar bone and tears down, down to his chest as he says nothing back to her. He takes a deep breath.

“Mm,” he says half-heartedly, leaning forwards to grab at his mug. He hopes that gives his mum the hint, but if it does she hasn’t taken it.

“Well that’s exciting, isn’t it? Having your best friend in the band?” She smiles. John takes a sip of his tea, taking his sweet time. If he takes enough time, maybe she won’t carry on this conversation. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, not after what happened at their last gig. He and Paul were fine enough, were their usual obnoxious, charming selves again with each other and everybody else, but he still can’t ignore the fact he takes a backseat to _George_ in Paul’s life. And it stings every time he thinks about it.

“Have you met Paul? He’s a pain in the arse,” he jokes.

“John!” Mimi scolds, looking at him with those firm eyes and that tight drawing of her lips. John wonders if he gets that expression from Mimi or from his mum.

“Oh give over, he’s only having a laugh,” Julia attempts to defend him. John takes the opportunity to have another sip of his tea, trying to stay out of the impending squabble that’s seconds away from taking place. Mimi sighs.

“Maybe that’s how you let him talk in your home Julia, but not here,” Mimi states. God, she could be such a square sometimes. John just rolls his eyes, lowers his mug until he places it back onto the coffee table with a dull thud.

As he leans back, he glances at Julia’s mark on her ankle. It stirs something inside of him, makes him feel curious suddenly.

“Silly, lovely,” he says out loud to no one in particular. Julia freezes next to him momentarily, eyes widening as they dart towards John and they catch each other’s gaze. She smiles weakly at him. “What’s it mean?” he asks after a few seconds of prolonged eye contact.

“When I met your dad he was wearing this ridiculous bowler hat. I told him it looked silly. He told me I looked lovely,” she says quietly. John finds himself smiling at the small story, trying to imagine it in his head. He doesn’t really remember what his dad looks like anymore though, so the whole image of the man is a bit distorted in his mind’s eye.

“So...A mark can be anything, then?” he asks. Julia nods her head back at him. He glances to Mimi, wanting her to weigh in on the conversation. She nods her head as well.

“A place, a quote, a time. Anything that connects you to the moment you fall in love with that person,” Julia says softly. He can tell that love is something she’s passionate about, something she cares deeply about.

John thinks about how George and Mimi were not soul mates. He realises he’s never seen Mimi’s mark. It must be somewhere hidden on her body, somewhere nobody can see it but herself and those she chooses to be intimate with. That gives her mark so much more meaning in his eyes. It must be nice to choose to share such a personal thing with only those who you want to see it. John wishes his own mark was somewhere a little better hidden for that reason, and he wishes it was something a little less _out there_ , but he can’t change it. He still dreads the day he slips up and Mimi finally sees it. He looks down at his arm, at the long sleeved jumper and the words he knows are hidden under just one layer. Just one layer is stopping Mimi from finding out.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with his mum on the night of his birthday party on the little wall outside of her house. He wonders if she’s thinking about it too.

If it was...a man’s handwriting...How would Mimi take it? When he inevitably meets this person and has to fall in love with them and bring them home to be placed under Mimi’s scrutiny, he’s not sure he would be able to. He already knows she’d be unforgiving in her judgment with a girl, but a boy? He doubts he’d ever tell her, if it so happens that his soul mate is...a man.

Not to mention how the rest of the world would take it, what with it being _illegal_.

“Did you ever meet your soul mate?” John asks Mimi, turning to look at her. Her eyes have glazed over but John’s voice snaps her back into the room. She shakes her head hesitantly at him.

“...No,” she says finally. She leans forward, yanks her cup of tea and holds it close to her chest, like she’s trying to warm her heart up. Maybe she is.

“No, and I don’t think it would make much difference now, anyway,” she states, voice much more confident this time around. John simply stares back at her, not sure what to say.

“Aren’t you curious?” Julia asks.

“I already spent my time with my favourite person on Earth,” Mimi answers back. It’s jolting for John to hear her speak like that about George. Mimi could be a cold woman, not one to wear her heart on her sleeve - like John. He knew that she did love George, would always love him, but sometimes it didn’t appear to be that way. He feels a soft smile creeping its way onto his face.

“I wonder if it feels the same, to fall in love with someone who is not your soul mate and fall in love with somebody who is,” John says. Both Julia and Mimi look at him, _really_  look at him, like he’s said something strange, something wrong, perhaps.

He glances between them both.

“It doesn’t,” Julia answers after a moment. Oh yeah. John often forgets that his mother had experienced both. Both Mimi and John peer at her, anticipating the rest of her opinion.

“When you fall in love with your soul mate it’s...” she starts. John isn’t really sure he wants to hear this.

“Everything seems to just suddenly make sense. The world just kind of, shifts, and it’s like you and this person are the centre of your own universe. It’s an intense and deep kind of love...” she trails off slowly, swallowing thickly. John just stares at her, brow knitting together as he thinks about what she just said.

“Sounds like something out of the pictures,” John attempts to joke, smiling weakly. His mum mirrors the same forced twitch of her lips. He wonders if that’s what he looks like when he makes that face, too.

“What about when you’re not?” John feels like a child, asking all of these silly questions. He just wants to know, wants to be able to differentiate between the two. Because Cynthia was great, she really was, and John couldn’t deny that there is something between them but he feels like he’s just wasting his time, just filling the gap until either he or Cynthia meet their soul mate. He’s all too aware that they’re temporary and it’s holding him back like it never has before. He didn’t care about marks though, did he?

“It feels almost the same...Just diluted...Less,” Julia murmurs. He can see smoke wafting into his eye line, turns to see that Mimi has lit a cigarette and is smoking it with a hardened expression - she’s frowning down at the floor like it holds all of the jumbled answers to the questions racing through her head.

John leans back slowly, feels his back sink into the cushion of the settee like falling into a mold of a shape designed specifically for his own body.

All of the things that Julia said, he can’t tell if he’s felt them all before or not. He thinks that maybe he has, but not with the person he's supposed to have felt these things for. He supposes, he’ll find out eventually anyway. He just wishes his mark had a date like Stuart’s, no matter how vague it was. He wishes he could know so that he could prepare himself. Prepare himself for what, he’s not sure.

Prepare himself so that he can unattach himself from Paul’s hip, maybe. So that he could learn to care a lot less about Paul and learn to care a lot less about Paul’s opinions and Paul’s view of the world.

He takes a backseat to George in Paul’s life.

John’s soul mate deserves more than to take a backseat to Paul in John’s life.

 

  
The bus is clattering.

John leans his head on the window, ignoring the way his forehead bumps painfully against the glass every few seconds as the large vehicle rattles on uneven roading. It’s annoying, but he doesn’t really care all that much. He’s fucking exhausted.

It’s so late that the outside world is just pitch black, and all John can see is the reflections of the people around him mirrored back at him through the window whenever he pulls his head away to adjust himself.

Their gig was good, but it was a run-of-the-mill kind of thing now. They switched up their setlist each time, but they were always playing in tiny venues with people that see them constantly. John knows they’re good, but he feels like they’re starting to get stuck and they’re not bringing in any extra attention, which is exactly what they need if they want to eventually get scouted or approach a record label.

Cynthia reaches out, places a hand gently on John’s shoulder as she leans into the view of the window so that she can hold eye contact with him. She smiles softly at him, a look which he tries to return. She had come with them to watch them play, watch John play, mostly. She helped them pack up and stayed behind and now here she is at the very back of the bus, sat between John and Pete, who also came for moral support. Colin is on the end of Pete, and George and Paul are sat in the seats in front, Paul and John’s guitars by Paul’s feet.

John stops leaning his head on the bus window and straightens out, instead reaches his arm out and tucks Cynthia into his side silently. He sees Paul’s eyes move as he momentarily studies John and Cynthia.

“George is _amazing_  at guitar,” Paul states, breaking the silence. He turns his head fully, looks at John specifically with something in his eyes that looks dangerous, challenging. John swallows.

“Is he even allowed out this late?” John asks, completely ignoring Paul’s compliment towards the other lad. As the other boys chuckle, he feels his heart begin to burn at the sight of Paul releasing a frustrated huff of breath at John’s lack of reaction, a sly satisfaction beginning to build.

“I think music might be the wrong career path for you. You’re a right Hancock,” George states back flatly to John. Colin and Pete chuckle whilst Cynthia tries to stifle her own quiet giggle. Paul laughs, way too loud at something that isn’t even _that_  funny as he side-eyes John again mid-laugh. John’s brow knits together as he starts to frown.

“Bet you can‘t even play...” John mutters as he looks away from everybody and back out the window. It’s useless, because all he sees are the faces of his friends peering at him curiously. He watches Paul’s head dip down from the corner of his eyes, turns his head to watch Paul pull out his guitar and hand it over to George, who takes it with ease and positions himself before making a point to look John in the eyes.

This feels oddly reminiscent of the day he met Paul - when Paul had to prove himself to John to even be given the time of day. George is making that same effort to prove himself worthy. John breaks the eye contact with George to glance at Paul, who is already looking at him with his lips slightly parted, with eyes that are dark and a weird expression on his face. He wonders if Paul is thinking the same thing that he is.

Before John and Paul have the opportunity to snipe at each other again with their words, George has begun playing Bill Justis’ ‘Raunchy’, and he is playing it exceptionally well. John widens his eyes, sees the triumphant, smug grin on Paul’s face as he watches John’s live reaction to George’s guitar playing abilities.

John’s pretty damn speechless. This boy was what, 14 years old? And he was capable of playing a song like that, and playing it perfectly. He’s much better at guitar than John, maybe even better than Paul. As much as he really doesn’t want to, John knows he’s going to have to ask George to be in the band, because God knows he isn’t going to let somebody who can play like _that_  slip through his fingertips and into the palms of another group. But he also doesn’t want to invite George in, because he’s already around too much for John’s liking, around Paul too much.

He’s known Paul longer, is closer to Paul than John feels he will ever be and if he lets George into this intimate set up he’s got going with Paul then he will be ripped away from John for good. Suddenly he won’t be spending time with him as _JohnandPaul_ , he’ll be spending time with him as _John, PaulandGeorge_. Is he ready to be replaced in that aspect of Paul’s life too?

“Fucking perfect,” Paul gushes as he leans over to grab hold of the guitar. John stays silent, not really sure what he’s supposed to do. He knows what he has to do, but it’s not what he really wants to do. Is it selfish to deny somebody something they so clearly want, just because he wants something else?

George looks at him expectantly.

“Yeah, it was alright,” John says with a higher pitched voice than normal, trying to remain aloof and very visibly failing. Paul snorts, looks away from John and back to George. Cynthia sighs from next to him, wriggles slightly in her seat.

“Don’t be horrible, John,” she scolds him. He feels like he’s sat next to Mimi, telling him to play nice with the other children. She turns to face George, back hitting against John’s arm and some of his chest. “Paul didn’t exaggerate when he said you’re amazing,” she grins. George just looks down, smiling bashfully as he shrugs his shoulders at her.

John doesn’t even care about what Cynthia is saying, is too busy staring at Paul who is staring at George with a soft smile and bright eyes as his eyelashes flutter every time he blinks. John leans closer, rests his hands on the back of Paul’s seat as he tries to get a closer look at him. He looks so beautiful, even when his face is being illuminated by the cheap, dodgy lighting of the bus which usually makes everybody look awful. It makes John look a right mess but it makes Paul look soft, like he’s the living embodiment of the word cosy. John just really wants to reach out and touch his hair, run it through his fingers. Wants to reach out and squeeze Paul’s shoulder, just to feel his body under his own in some kind of way. John’s eyes drop to Paul’s lips, to puffy lips that are twisted up in a smirk as he talks. He can’t even hear what he’s saying, can just see his mouth moving and John really wants to reach his hand out, trace Paul’s bottom lip with his thumb gently, just to see if they’re as soft as they appear to be.

Paul turns his head slightly, catches John staring at his lips. He almost knocks his nose against John’s they’re so close. Everyone else is so caught up in their own conversation that they haven’t noticed but John and Paul are frozen, unsure of what to do. There’s an overwhelming urge inside of John to wait, see what Paul decides to do instead. But John Lennon is a coward if he ever met one, and he’s so sure that Paul doesn’t see any of it the way he sees it. He’s being stupid, asking to get his head kicked in by being like this.

So, like a coward, John pulls himself away and slumps back into his seat, drops his arm that’s hanging around Cynthia’s neck and confines himself to the small space he has at the edge of his seat at the back of this bus, feeling utterly ridiculous for even doing such a thing as staring at Paul when he’s literally got a girl around his own neck. It’s embarrassing how little self-control he feels he has lately.

“You can join, If you want,” John says suddenly, breaking into the other conversation happening with everybody else. They all stop as George peers at John with squinting eyes, confused and suspicious - like he thinks John is just having him on. “The band,” John adds in an attempt to answer the confusion on the younger boy’s face. George breaks into a large grin, looks at Paul who is sharing this newfound expression of joy. John just snaps his mouth shut, leans his head against the window again.

Nothing has changed, not really. So then why does it feel like he’s lost Paul, like he’s just dropped Paul into George’s palm and out of his own tight embrace?


	13. shifting in with feelings of a sweet surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this chapter written up for months but i didn't have anything for after it, i was completely stuck and didn't know what direction to take next. i pushed myself over the past few days to get something together, and it's not so bad. the next chapter isn't very exciting HOWEVER this one is so i hope it'll do!  
> ALSO i like literally just today realised that when i write dialogue the grammar is all completely off...i hope you guys know its (kinda) intentional. i'm manc, i just speak funny anyway and try and translate that into liddypool, because lets be honest - its essentially the same dialect. so yea...its on purpose pls don't think i'm incapable of writing properly 
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'revelator eyes' by the paper kites

As Cynthia closes her front door, smiling shyly at John as she catches a final glimpse at him for the day, he can’t fight the building pit that’s sucking his insides further down into his stomach. He forces a smile back at her, waits until he hears her lock her front door to turn his back and drop his smile.

 

 

He doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to spend any more time with Cynthia, doesn’t want to go to Stuart’s and definitely doesn’t want to gather all of the other lads, because all they’ll do is pub crawl and John has made enough of a tit out of himself this evening without a drink down him, thanks.

 

All he can think about is Paul, how much he wants to spend time with him before the bubble that keeps them inside, safe with each other and keeps everybody else out is finally popped by the other people barging their way into the boy’s lives - people like Stuart, people like George and even people like Cynthia. He wants Paul to himself, just for a little bit longer.

 

He has to see him, he decides. Has to see him now.

 

 

His aim is absolutely fucking dreadful, but he’s managed to hit the window enough times with the stones that the bedroom light has finally turned on. And then Paul emerges from behind the curtains, lifting his window up and staring down at John sleepily, with half-lidded eyes and messy hair. He’s still in the t-shirt and drainies that he was in on the bus ride home though, so at least he hasn’t gone to bed yet.

 

“Come out?” John shouts up at him. Paul leans his head out of the window, rests his hands on the windowsill as he narrows his eyes back in response.

 

“It’s eleven,” Paul answers flatly, voice much quieter than John’s own. John just shrugs up at him.

 

“And?”

 

“And me dad’s in bed. And it’s the middle of winter. And what are we going to do?” Paul lists back. John frowns - he’s not going to take no for an answer. He has to see him.

 

“Come on babe,” John whines, body going sluggish as he attempts to plead. Paul glances around nervously, hisses down at John.

 

“D’ya mind? People might hear...” Paul trails off, eyes locked on the back gardens of the houses squashed next to his own. Ouch. Like a little paper cut on his heart, John feels it sting him. Just as he kept thinking - Paul doesn’t want people assuming he’s queer, not with John anyway. He bets it would be different if it was _George_  stood here though. John straightens himself out, cups his hands around his mouth as he begins to smirk. As if knowing what he’s about to do, Paul’s face morphs into a terrified expression and he begins to shake his head.

 

“James Paul McCartney, my baby, my lovely little dove,” John shouts, making sure to emphasise his words for an extra kick. Paul is gaping at him, absolutely mortified. But John thinks it’s funny, so he doesn’t really care.

 

“For fuck sake, John!” Paul shouts back, attempting to drown John out so that his words are harder to decipher. John drops his hands from around his mouth, licks at his bottom lip as he smirks up at him. Failing to hide his growing smile, Paul sighs as he looks behind him back into his bedroom.

 

“Fine...Just give me a minute, then,” Paul says finally. “Go round the side,” he adds quickly, closing the window as he heads back into his bedroom.

 

John looks at the back fence he’s just had to climb over and grimaces. He approaches it again, scrambles up it like a stray cat with loose footing. When he drops down onto the other side, he walks quickly up the pitch black ginnel until he’s finally at the side of Paul’s house, where the bathroom is visible through the window. He looks up when he sees the light is switched on, notices the large drain pipe extending down to the floor next to it, illuminated by the light of the room.

 

God, is Paul going to scale the side of his own house?

 

The light turns off and John spots a black figure by the window until the latch is lifted and Paul is hanging out of it again. He glances behind him, eyes narrowed as he lifts himself up onto the windowsill.

 

“Can’t see a thing,” Paul says down to him, staring at the drainpipe as he begins to position himself around it.

 

John probably shouldn’t feel as nervous as he does. But Paul said himself he can barely see, and he’s literally climbing down a long-terraced house with nothing but his shoes on his feet and his hands around a shitty wobbly drainpipe. If he falls...

 

“Please be careful,” John calls out, concerned. He hears Paul sneer as he begins lowering himself down the wall slowly, legs smacking loudly against the bricks.

 

“Alright, mum,” he says sarcastically, grunting as he descends lower and lower. John wants to bite back, but he’s distracted by the view of Paul’s arse as it lowers towards him.

 

John watches as Paul’s feet finally hit the ground and he stumbles backward momentarily, only to gather his balance quickly and recover. He turns around, to John, smiling triumphantly.

 

“I can’t help but feel that wasn’t your first time,” John points out as Paul walks towards him. Paul responds by wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at John’s comment, earning him a little breathless chuckle in response. John desperately tries not to think of any other meaning behind the phrase.

 

“Your fault. My dad likes to passive-aggressively lock the front door when I stay out too late, so I have to break in sometimes,” Paul offers as an explanation. John turns his back, staring up at Paul’s house.

 

“Left the window open,” John observes, pointing a finger up in its direction. Paul’s aura of smugness drops, as he also turns his head and groans when he sets his eyes upon the open window, swinging in the wind that’s started picking up. John smirks as he watches Paul debate what to do inside of his own head.

 

“...Hope it doesn’t blow off,” Paul says finally, waving his hand dismissively as he turns back around. It's then that John realises Paul has something in his other hand - a large old jumper that he usually wears when it’s cold. Only, Paul is wearing a different jumper today and a big warm duffel coat on top of that which makes him look incredibly tiny but also incredibly cozy, with his fingers barely poking out from underneath his sleeves. He looks adorable. Paul looks at him, sees him looking at his hand and then he realises what he’s holding, too.

 

“Oh!” he says, offering the jumper out to John, who looks up at him hesitantly. “You’re gonna need somet more than that if we’re staying out,” Paul gestures with a nod of his head towards John and his t-shirt and his parka, which looked good in its military green colour, and was oversized and helped block out a lot of the cold, but it was also thin and had some little tears in its seams. Mimi absolutely despised it and its cultural significance, never usually let him leave the house in it but John thought it looked cool and they were incredibly easy and cheap to get a hold of.

 

He smiles at Paul despite the insult to his coat, takes the jumper gratefully and peels off his coat to be able to pull it over his head.

 

It fits snug, maybe a little bit too small for him at the sleeves considering the height difference between himself and Paul - which was shrinking lately, what’s that all about? - and it looked ugly, dark brown fleece with equally unattractive lighter brown patterns on it. But it was warm, and it was _Paul’s_. John tries to subtly breathe in the scent of Paul and his home that had been left all over the jumper without making it obvious, without blowing his cover. It was cute, really, that Paul had made sure to get something warm for him. His thoughtfulness was endearing, but was he about to admit that to Paul’s face? Absolutely not.

 

“Alright, mum,” John mimics back the words that had fallen from Paul’s mouth just a few minutes previously. He shrugs his coat back on top, tries to function past the overwhelming warmth inside his chest at now wearing something that belongs to Paul. Is this what a bird feels like when she gets to wear her boyfriend’s clothes?

 

John inwardly freezes at the thought. No, because John and Paul were not boyfriends. Would never be.

 

Paul just rolls his eyes, despite the smile on his face.

 

“Try to do something nice...” he tuts. Then Paul reaches out, tugs gently at John’s arm as he starts leading him down towards the end of the ginnel. “Let’s not hang about,” he whispers as he leans into John, still holding his arm. He manages to snake his arm under John’s until they’re linking, neither even realising it. John lets himself be led, feels the energy between their skin, although dulled by their layers of clothing, begin to crackle inside of him. He glances at Paul, who is looking forward with a faraway expression, wonders why he’s never said anything about it before.

 

He knows that Paul feels it too, can remember when Paul handed him his guitar on the steps outside of his house, the first time they hung out together solo - he remembers seeing Paul’s eyes widen and remembers the hesitation in the younger boy to do anything with his hand in fear of losing the electricity. It happens literally every single time that one of them touches the other, and it’s never happened to him with anybody else. But then, why would Paul say anything if John hasn’t?

 

Because John is the leader. John is the one that has taken Paul by his hand, has tugged him to his side and is now running with him, hands clasped together as they just run and run through life. John is the one that swooped in, like something out of the pictures, and shown Paul the world as a new adventure, shown him that Liverpool is more than just the bustling docks and sleepy towns and Paul’s stupid grammar school. John is the one that reaches out and touches him each time, the one that wears his heart on his sleeve around the other and lays his feelings out on the table through gentle words and fond eyes and soft, lingering touches. It’s never Paul.

 

And yet, he looks down at their linked arms, something that Paul did, as they make their way down the sketchy backstreets, into the silent darkness that just they two are a part of. The only people out there. As John stares, as he feels Paul bump his body into John’s occasionally when he loses his footing in the dark, he realises that the reason Paul has reached out to touch him first is because nobody is around. They’re not on the main roads. It’s late at night. Nobody else is out.

 

Maybe Paul wanted it all too, but he was just much more afraid than John was to be caught in the act, to be on the receiving end of those funny beady eyes that some of the lads have been giving John lately, especially Len.

 

 

Paul has taken them to one of those shitty parks, where it’s just patches of grass and benches and ugly, rickety swings, a rusty slide. All paid for by the council, like they should be grateful that they have been handed the world’s biggest health hazard with money that they give, to put back into what? A half-arsed effort at a park, apparently.

 

“You’re really quiet lately,” Paul comments, voice soft as he lets go of John’s arm to sit himself down at a swing. John sits at the one next to him, turns his body so that he can somewhat face Paul as he leans his shoulder against the chain, to see that Paul has begun to slowly kick his feet up off the ground and swing.

 

“Am I?” John asks, but his voice doesn’t sound familiar to him. He feels like he’s been running on autopilot ever since Paul’s first gig. The fantasy was shattered that night when he realised he’s not as important to Paul as he likes to think he is, and he doesn’t really know where to go from there, how to process that information. The silence makes him realise Paul isn’t saying anything, either - he’s stopped swinging so much as just kicking his feet into the dirt under them as he eyes John with a thoughtful expression. John doesn’t know how to handle being stared at like this. He’s grateful that it’s dark and cold, so Paul will barely be able to pick up that his cheeks are heating up. 

 

“You always look like that,” Paul says finally. John raises an eyebrow back, not sure what he’s going on about. “Like you’re always thinking about something...”

 

“I am,” John chuckles humourlessly. Paul’s brow knits together, pulls down into a frown.

 

“What about?”

 

John bites his lip. Something he hasn't done before. Has he picked the nervous habit up off Paul?

 

“I think it’s more what _not_  about,” John attempts to be lighthearted. Paul stares at him for a few more moments, then looks out into the darkness, like there’s something more interesting out there than John. There probably is, he thinks. Could be a bloody leaf whistling in the wind and Paul would find it more interesting than he finds John lately.

 

“Do you like George?” Paul asks. John sinks in his seat, feels his insides turn rotten with the crushing weight of it all. Paul was thinking about George even now, even with John right by his side. John sighs, lowers his head as he kicks harshly into the wet mud beneath his shoes.

 

“He’s alright, yeah,” John manages before swallowing. Everything inside of him just aches and suddenly he regrets ever asking Paul to come out if all they’re going to do is talk about George all night.

 

“Then why are you horrible to him?” Paul’s voice is quiet, guarded. Like he’s waiting for John to start kicking and screaming, short-tempered and unforgiving words. He’s all of those things, but hardly ever with Paul. John blinks, can’t figure out why it even matters to Paul so much?

 

“Why are you horrible to Stu?” John answers back. It comes out meaner than he intended it to, his voice harsh. He lifts his gaze from the floor to Paul, sees him frowning still as their eyes meet after what feels like a lifetime since they last did. John relaxes, feels the hot, angry air inside of him exhale through his nose, through his lips as he stares into the swamp of colours in Paul’s eyes, barely visible in the dark. Paul’s expression softens too, and he shoots John a small, sad smile. It unnerves him, seeing Paul look at him like that. He has to prepare himself for the worst, for the next thing that Paul says to possibly break his heart.

 

“I feel like I have to compete with Stuart for your attention,” He can hardly hear the words tumble from Paul’s mouth, but he knows that they were said. John stares, dumbfounded. “But it’s like there’s no point...Because I know I’m second best,” Paul let’s go of the chain, let’s his hands fall to his sides and sinks his head into his duffel coat slowly, closing in on himself. John stumbles around in his brain, emptying every word he’s ever learned out to try and form a coherent sentence but he can’t. Quite the opposite of breaking his heart, then.

 

He thought that maybe Paul did feel like this, especially the first time Paul and Stuart met. But he also thought that he was being stupid, that he was looking into issues that weren’t there just because that’s how he _wanted_  Paul to feel - wanted him to be afraid of losing John. Only, when the shoe is on the other foot, John is all too aware that being constantly terrified of losing someone who means so much to you isn’t a good feeling at all, makes you want to give up on them instead of fight for them. Maybe that’s how Paul felt lately, too.

 

“Me too,” is all that he can manage to say. The look of recognition in Paul’s eyes, as he blinks, the silent tense atmosphere floating around them as they both try to be aloof whilst wearing their hearts open and raw for each other - it says it all, all of the things that they are not saying to each other. But it isn’t enough for him to keep letting everything but his own lips speak for him.

 

John stands up, walks to Paul’s swing. He stops in front of Paul, crouches down and wraps his hand around the chain as Paul watches him. John is the leader, is always the leader, has to take the first step now, as always.

 

“We’re John and Paul,” he says quietly. Paul doesn’t say anything back to him.

 

“Not George and Paul, not John and Stuart. We’re _John_  and _Paul_  and we’re best mates. You’re my best mate, not Stuart,” John lowers his grip on the chain, slinks his hand down until it’s grabbing at Paul’s arm, until it slithers down his coat and onto his fingers, barely touching.

 

Paul keeps his gaze locked with him as John breathes out shakily. Why was Paul always so hard to read in moments like this?

 

“You’re the only person I need,” and John hopes this is doing something, hopes this validates what they have enough to Paul for him to crumble, for him to just for _once_  give him something back. 

 

It must work, because Paul’s fingers reach out and slowly worm between the spaces in John’s. They wriggle, slow, shaky until their fingers are twined together. Paul smiles at him nervously.

 

It’ll haunt John’s dreams if he doesn’t ask now, about the static bubbling in their joined hands - it’s burning through his veins almost painfully with its intensity.

 

“Do you feel it?” John asks quietly.

 

“Only with you...” Paul nods his head, voice almost a whisper.

 

John’s legs begin to hurt from being crouched for so long. He stands up, watches as Paul stares up at him. John shuffles closer, knocks his knee gently against Paul’s as Paul spreads his legs and lets him stand between his thighs. It makes John’s stomach stir, the lack of space between them, the thought of being trapped between Paul’s thighs in other circumstances.

 

Attempting to fight off his arousal, John smiles, lopsided as he stares at Paul who is flushed and embarrassed but still visibly cold, shivering slightly as he sits. His hair is all disheveled from random spurts of wind, his nose is pink and he keeps sniffling to stop it from running, but his mouth is pulled into a tiny smile. His gaze drops to Paul’s lips, to his bottom lip which looks so inviting. When he tears his eyes back up, Paul is doing the same as he was moments ago, eyes fixated on John’s mouth. His stomach stirs again, butterflies spreading up from his hips all the way into his heart. He feels Paul’s fingers tug, pushing his thigh against Paul’s and making him lean down, closer to Paul’s face.

 

Paul’s smile widens, lips wobbly as his eyes fall into half lids. A smile that John mirrors as they hold each other’s gaze again. The brown in Paul’s eyes have gone darker, his pupils bigger. John can’t do this any longer, can’t keep looking at Paul like this without touching, feeling.

 

He lifts his free hand up, brushes his thumb gently across Paul’s bottom lip. Just like he imagined, soft and plump and begging for him to kiss.

 

“Jo _hn_ ,” Paul’s voice has gone all funny, all raspy and desperate as he breathes out his name. John doesn’t want to forget what it sounds like, not ever. But John is still a bastard, and the way his light teasing has melted Paul into a puddle makes him smirk, makes him want to do more before he finally gives in to the temptation of red soft lips that cry out his name even without him _really_ touching.

 

A hand reaches out, fingers knotting into the back of John’s hair as they force his face forward and his lips against Paul’s.

 

It’s soft, hesitant. Their lips touch, a brief kiss between the two until John pulls away slightly, opens his eyes halfway to get a look at Paul, to make eye contact as his nose brushes against Paul’s own, as his lips ghost over Paul’s and he moves against him breathlessly. It’s his way of letting Paul back out, letting Paul realise that this isn’t what he wants - but it never happens. Instead, Paul breathes onto John’s skin, onto his lips as he leans his forehead against John’s and closes his eyes. John leans back in, connecting their lips again.

 

They kiss each other with their mouths closed, pecking long and slow every few seconds until John feels Paul bite his lower lip, pulling with his teeth playfully into his own mouth. Grunting, John obliges and opens his mouth. His head is positively spinning, he can’t keep a thought down for long enough to process it, but he doesn’t care enough when he has Paul’s tongue hot and heavy in his mouth, moving against his teeth and his own tongue.

 

John lifts a hand up, gently cups Paul’s cheek and strokes softly with his thumb as the kiss deepens, as they lose themselves in each other. Paul responds by lowering his own hand from John’s hair, fingers tracing his skin down until he’s holding John’s neck.

 

Every part of him feels like he’s on fire - his lips are trembling, tingling against Paul’s as they move with each other, as Paul’s hand slips again from his neck down to his chest, gripping at his jumper and pulling him even closer. John hums softly, maybe a little desperate as he feels his thigh knock into Paul’s groin, into an obvious bulge, earning him a small gasp as their lips part for a few moments.

 

Paul hesitantly leans away, ducking his head shyly. His skin is boiling in John’s palm, sweaty and prickling. It makes John grin, goofy as his lips throb from the sensation of budding bruises, too much kissing.

 

He’s never been kissed like that, never felt like that before from just snogging somebody, not even Cynthia. The way Paul makes him feel is indescribable, even now as he’s avoiding John’s eyes and staring down at the floor. Why won’t he look at him?

 

John lifts his head, using the hand that’s still cupped around his cheek gently. His other hand gives Paul’s fingers a gentle _squeeze_ , a request for him to look up, which he does. Eyes meeting, John watches as Paul’s anxiety leaves his body in one big breath. He visibly deflates, relaxes back into his skin upon the realisation that John isn’t going to do anything, say anything, about what just happened. Paul leans forward again, rests his forehead against John’s and closes his eyes as a content hum escapes from his throat. John feels his heart tug, feels his mouth twist into a grin as his hand travels to the back of Paul’s head, running his fingers through his soft brown locks over and over again.

 

The silence is easy, comfortable and full of something new. John didn’t realise it before, but there was always a growing tension hanging between them for so long, and he only noticed it was there after everything had reached a head with George throwing himself into _their_  bubble, knocking the walls and weakening the connection between them - or so John thought. Or maybe George just gave them the push that they needed, the push that brought them to whatever it was they’re doing now.

 

“You’re doing it again,” Paul says, voice quiet and soft. It makes John’s chest burst, the way he sounds so peaceful.

 

“Doing?” John repeats stupidly, brain still short-circuiting as it processes everything going on around them, desperately trying to cling onto the moment to replay inside of his head.

 

“Thinking,” Paul answers, rubs his forehead against John’s, and his nose too by default. It makes John laugh, quiet and fond as he rubs his nose back, watches Paul’s still closed eyes and the way a slow, lazy smile plants onto his lips.

 

“You can’t even see me,” John says in a halfhearted attempt to defend himself. Paul’s smile grows, the wind picks up and rustles his hair into his face, into John’s face and it tickles.

 

“Can feel it,” Paul offers as an explanation. John isn’t sure he understands, is pretty sure Paul is just chatting bollocks because he’s tired. His voice has gone much lower, sleepier as he slurs out his words slowly and quietly. John smiles sadly at him, knowing he’s going to have to take Paul home instead of staying out all night as they had planned.

 

“You’re tired,” John says instead of continuing the previous conversation, all too aware of the direction it was eventually going to take. Paul huffs out, pulls his head back and opens his eyes to stare at John’s through half lids.

 

“...’M not...” Paul mumbles.

 

“Of course you’re not,” John says softly. He moves back, uses his fingers which are still entwined with Paul’s to pull him up so that he’s standing. Paul follows him, let’s himself be lifted up as he attempts to stifle a groan. “Come on, let’s get you home then,” John continues, walks forward and pulls Paul along with him by squeezing his hand again. Paul follows him momentarily, then stops as he begins to shake his head.

 

“I can’t...I don’t wanna climb up my house...Might fall...” Paul attempts to string the sentence together, sinks his face into his coat as a shield for his cheeks from the wind that’s starting to pick up. John looks at him, smiles and sighs dramatically, like this is all a huge inconvenience for him.

 

“I _suppose_ , out of the kindness of me own heart, I’ll let you stay at mine tonight then,” John smirks, chuckling when Paul only rolls his eyes back at him. They look down, to their entwined hands.

 

Reluctantly, Paul wriggles his fingers from underneath John’s, loosens his grip until all that’s left is the lingering warmth of where they were, the empty space and sudden feeling of a pit, sucking John’s insides into it and suffocating him.

 

They don’t try to touch each other again the entire walk back to John’s - it’s too risky. There’s too many drunken men, women, stumbling down the main streets or stood at pub doors, chatting and drinking and smoking with each other as they side eye John and Paul suspiciously, like they’re the ones that can’t be trusted out this late on a Friday.

 

They talk quietly, sometimes laughing, but John doesn’t push for much conversation when he knows Paul is too tired to have a real talk. There’s a fleeting thought in the back of his mind that perhaps Paul isn’t tired at all, that perhaps he’s faking it just to get away from what had happened at the park, away from the thought of being intimate with John, but he tries to smother that dangerous suspicion as quickly as he can, not willing to let himself ruin the otherwise perfect moment.

 

It’s not until they finally reach the gate to Mimi’s that John realises how tired he is, too. All of that walking must have really taken it out of him.

 

He opens the gate as quietly as he can manage, let’s Paul slip through before slowly closing it again.

 

Both his front door and the hall door open with ease, almost silently, and he pushes them gently when Paul and himself squeeze through the small gap he leaves for them, one at a time.

 

He crawls upstairs, whispers for Paul to follow him which he does, until they reach his bedroom door. John opens it slowly, tries his hardest not to let the door squeak until he barrels himself inside. Paul follows after him. Releasing a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding, John closes his bedroom door.

 

The light remains off as the darkness engulfs them, but they’ve spent so much time in the dark outside that their eyes manage to adjust to it all easily.

 

John peels off his coat, his jumper, his t-shirt, his jeans until he’s left in his boxers and socks. He scratches at his head, turns to lift up his duvet covers when he realises that Paul isn’t mirroring him, for once.

 

In fact, Paul is just stood there, fully clothed and staring at him with blown pupils. John smirks, raises an eyebrow as he rubs at the back of his neck with his hand.

 

“Thought you was knackered?” He whispers, voice smug and knowing. He knows exactly what Paul is thinking, exactly why Paul isn’t getting undressed.

 

It seems to knock Paul out of his trance, because he begins to frantically unbutton his jeans as he clumsily slips out of them. He pulls his jumper over his head, and the t-shirt underneath it too until he’s stood before John in his boxers, like he has done so many times before, only now he’s much shyer and his skin is going pink under the intensity of John’s gaze.

 

He looks so much different now, stood squirming in his underwear on the other side of John’s room to him. Everything about him is the same, but everything feels new. It’s like he’s seeing Paul for the first time - his pale skin, the arm hair that’s gradually been thickening and darkening lately, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he chews nervously, the cutest habit John has ever seen on a person.

 

“Come here...” John whispers out into the darkness, reaches a hand out as Paul slowly shuffles towards him. When he’s close enough, John wraps his hand around Paul’s arm slowly, with a loose grip. He leans in close, watches Paul tilt his head up towards him as he ghosts his lips over Paul’s, pressing them together without kissing.

 

“You don’t seem so tired now,” John smirks against his lips, let’s himself exaggerate the words so that Paul can feel them tingle on his own lips, too.

 

“Fuck off,” Paul whispers back against him, fighting the smile growing on his face.

 

John leans back, let’s go of Paul as he instead collapses onto his own bed, curls himself into his duvet and turns his back, wriggling up the mattress to give Paul room. There’s a lump that lands next to him, warm skin as Paul’s chest rests against John’s back. He’s never been the little spoon before. He’s taller than Paul, so it’s a little awkward for them both with Paul’s face smushed up against the middle of his back, with Paul’s legs pressed firmly against his calf’s.

 

John turns over slowly, readjusts himself as he faces Paul. He's met with the sight of long eyelashes, sleepy eyes and a slow smile that spreads up Paul's lips as he stares back at John. He pulls his arm up, rests his head on it and hides his smile with his arm, but even in the darkness, John can see where Paul's skin is going hot at his cheeks and the crinkling in the corners of his droopy eyes. John simply stares back at him, doesn't try to hide the grin or the way his heart bursts with joy at the sight of Paul lay next to him, facing him.

 

With a blink of his eye, like a flashback; a twisted glimpse into his brain, John sees the woman from his dream in the spot where Paul is supposed to be. Raven hair that keeps falling and falling lower, dark eyes staring at him intensely. A smile that unnerves him.

 

John snaps his eyes shut, scrunches his face up to try and clear the image in front of him.

 

"What's the matter, love?" Paul's voice, soft and slow. Safety. John breathes out a sigh of relief, relaxes again and opens his eyes to see Paul has wriggled closer, their noses almost touching as he peers concerned at the older boy. John smiles softly back at him.

 

"So I'm 'love' now am I?" John deflects, smirks as he watches Paul's eyes widen. Paul turns away, onto his back as he stares up at the ceiling with narrowed eyes. He's biting the inside of his cheeks, trying to keep that beautiful smile from appearing again.

 

"Fine then, I don't care," Paul jokes. John turns on his back, leans upwards to peak at the boy beside him. Everything about him - his messy brown hair, pushed up and out from wriggling on pillows, his collarbones, shoulders that are starting to broaden, pale skin and scrawny arms and soft rising and falling of his chest - John likes it all. Maybe even more than likes.

 

"...Had this bad dream...It was like...like a glimpse into another universe," John starts. Paul turns his head, leans it down towards John's and rests the top of it against the side of John's. It electrifies John's brain, makes him feel like Paul has activated a telepathic connection through the touch, merged their minds together into one. It's very strange, feels fucking surreal, to be honest. Paul doesn't judge him for his silly ideas and strange words, he doesn't have to worry about sounding crazy to Paul. "I was seeing me...I was old, didn't look so good..." Paul responds by brushing his head against John's, a soft but firm motion as he hums a noise of encouragement. "With some woman. It didn't feel right, Paul. She was talking about you but it hurt. I looked at my face. I was going to cry, just because she said your name," John can hear his voice getting more nervous, can hear the way his words are rushing out and tumbling uncomfortably. "There were no marks..." he trails off, voice mangling in his throat and falling off.

 

He remembers the pressure he's feeling on his head, rubs his head against Paul's, determined to find comfort in the touch, as he stares up at the ceiling and waits for Paul to say something back to him. He feels something instead, though. He feels Paul's fingers tracing the back of his hand, fingers trailing along his knuckles and veins. John closes his eyes in response, can feel himself start to calm down and regain his composure.

 

"Maybe that was the wrong universe," Paul offers, voice breaking the silence. He sounds soft, sleepy. "The universe where everything goes wrong - the band, the birds...us...." he adds the last part hesitantly. John feels Paul's fingers fit themselves into the spaces between his own, loose as they link to hold hands. Paul uses his thumb to rub John's gently.

 

"So that means this the right universe," he adds, voice playful.

 

John hums out a noise of approval in response, but his gut feels like it's been split open because this _isn't_  the right universe.

 

Because in this universe, he could never have Paul either.

 

Maybe there isn't a right universe for _JohnandPaul_  - maybe it's always going to end the same way.

 

John lets go of Paul's hand, turns onto his side and faces the younger boy, who glances down at him through the corners of his eyes. John smiles sadly at him, all too aware that this little safe space, this little moment they've had tonight is just that - a moment.

 

They're not allowed more than this, more than kissing in the dark in seedy locations where eyes can't see and mouths can't talk. More than lying in John's bed, shyly holding hands and talking about worlds where whatever this is, happening right now between them, is allowed to exist. Tomorrow they'll have to forget it, pretend it didn't happen and go back to being nothing more than two best mates.

 

Paul smiles sadly back at him, mirrors the same sleepy eyes and glaze in his pupil's that John can imagine on himself, like Paul is thinking the same thing as him.

 

John's not so sure he can pretend anymore.

 

 

He wakes the next morning to an empty space in his bed, no trace of Paul ever being there in the first place save for that ugly jumper he let John borrow last night, lying crumpled on the bedroom floor. John squeezes it in his hand, lifts it to his nose and breathes in the scent of safety, happiness - Paul.


	14. but it’s creeping in my head that i’ve been feeding a lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ello! i've been trying to figure out where i wanted this chapter to go for a while. it resulted in being simply a bit of a filler, and developing john's relationships with other people briefly. but i promise more john and paul sickeningly sweet fluff is just around the corner! as always, all of your comments are greatly appreciated. i re-read them constantly, especially when i'm struggling to find my muse and god you all make me smile so much. you're all too kind<33
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'woke up from a dream' by the paper kites

The cigarette smoke wafts through the air, into the light of the window where it dances with the dust particles clinging onto every nook and cranny of the house. John releases a breath he didn't even realise he was holding as he watches it.

 

He wriggles his bum, trying his hardest to get comfy on Stuart's shitty, cheap sofa. He sags too much in the seats, can feel his bones sinking into the bottom of the couch at an alarming rate as he crushes the end of his cigarette into the ashtray. John sighs softly, leans himself forward and onto the floor. He begins crawling along the wooden floorboards that creak every time he presses his body on them.

 

Stuart doesn't even glance up from where he is sketching in a large book on the floor. There are dried paint splatters all over the wooden boards, each smelling like old acrylics and dust if John pushes his nose against them hard enough - which, believe him, he has done in the past.

 

"What are you doing? You not got any legs?" Stuart asks dryly, tilting his head to the side as his hand pulls away from his page. He inspects the paper closely, like he's thinking really hard about something. John looks up from where his eyes have been following the wooden pattern of grooves on the floorboards, catching Stuart's profile from the side - sharp jaw, strong cheekbones. His eyelashes are fluttering, pouty lips parted slightly as he stares at his own creation with determination and thought. And still, even with a young man this beautiful right before his very eyes, his thoughts wander their way back to Paul, to the night before.

 

John swallows.

 

"Not since the war...France, 1940...It was a cool morning in May..." John trails off, begins to add an extra kick to his role by dragging his legs with force. They smack against the wood hard enough that it's loud and painful, but John doesn't really mind. He makes his way over to Stuart slowly, who simply rolls his eyes and puts his pencil back to his paper.

 

Mildly offended by his lack of reaction, John begins to pout. He leans closer, rests his head against Stuart's arm. He hears a soft sigh fall from Stuart's lips.

 

"I said you could come over as long as you didn't try and distract me," Stuart says softly, like he's exasperated with the antics of a younger sibling. John hums back in response, nuzzles his head into Stuart's arm.

 

"I’m not distracting you," John says quietly, voice muffled by the way his lips are pressed against Stuart's arm. John hears the pencil drop to the floor, along with the sketchbook. He feels an arm come up and begin to stroke his back.

 

"What's got you like this? I've not seen you this happy since the first time you shagged Cyn," Stuart jokes. John feels the hairs on his skin prickle, a painful heat that stings on his every nerve. He hadn't thought about Cynthia, hadn't allowed himself to. God, if she ever found out John had cheated on her, with a man. His best friend no less...

 

"Johnny?" Stuart's voice is slow, calm. Like a beacon of light in a stormy sea, John feels himself slowly being pulled back. He sits up from his position, tries to fight the suffocating feeling of the inside of his chest collapsing. God, what had he done?

 

He kissed Paul. He fucking kissed Paul.

 

“Stu I...I did something bad...” John splutters, his voice getting mangled inside his own throat, betraying him from coming clean to Stuart, coming clean to everyone. He pulls at the loose t-shirt around his neck, pulls it down as if it’s going to help him breathe any better. Stuart’s face contorts, lips forming into a frown as his brow knits together and he reaches a hand out, places it very gently upon John’s shoulder. Tired hazel eyes shift upwards, until he’s holding Stuart’s gaze.

 

“Last night…Cheated on Cyn…” It’s all he can manage to say. Stuart blinks back at him, eyes wide but lips pulled into a tight line as he processes what John has just told him.

 

“But…Wasn’t you out with Cyn last night? I thought she went home with you lot on the bus?” Stuart asks in confusion. John panics again – he’s onto him. He knows.

 

“Uhh...Yeah…It was after I took her home. I went out,” Fuck, John is usually such a good liar, what’s the matter with him?

 

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had to lie about _kissing a boy_  before.

 

“With who?”

 

“Some of the lads from class. Erm, anyway…I met this bird and…I don’t know, must have had too much to drink and…we snogged…” He finishes hurriedly. John averts his eyes, gaze falling down to the floor as he attempts to build his story in his head. There’s no doubt Stuart was going to pry. When he doesn’t say anything back, however, John is left surprised. He looks back up, the two locking gazes again as John begins to frown. “Can you fucking…Help me please? I don’t know what to do!” John pleads.

 

Stuart takes one long breath in, closes his eyes and opens them again as he breathes out.

 

“Alright…” Stuart says quietly, voice clearly trying to mask his irritation. “Don’t tell her. Don’t see that girl again. You’re welcome,” He picks up his pencil from the floor, as if to end the conversation. John scoffs back at him.

 

“Are you taking the piss? That’s all you have to say?” John fires back, crossing his arms over his chest as he frowns. What a fucking waste of time this was. Stuart picks up his sketchbook, turns his attention back to the drawing which only angers John more. He’s supposed to be his mate, supposed to help him. So why the fuck isn’t he trying?

 

“Listen John, if it’s just a random girl you met at a club and snogged then there’s nothing to worry about. It was a mistake. She doesn’t have to know, does she?” Stuart sighs, nibbles at the skin on his bottom lip as he begins to add to his sketch. “But-” _Scratch_. “-But if it’s not that, if it’s something _more_ , with someone more than just this girl at the club, then you shouldn’t be having this conversation with me. It should be with that person…”

 

John would hate him if he wasn’t so right.

 

“So, what? I act like everything is fine with Cyn?” John asks. Stuart hums his approval, doesn’t even bother looking up from his sketchbook again. That’s it, then – this conversation is over, just like that?

 

Sighing, John pulls himself to a stand. He brushes the dust from off of his drainies and heads for the living room door. When he spots Stuart peering at him curiously from over his sketchbook, John shoots his thumb behind his back.

 

“I think I left my cig deck in my coat pocket,” he offers as an explanation. Stuart just looks back down. As John hits the threshold into the hallway, he hears Stuart call his name. Fighting off the mild irritation – he just had the perfect opportunity to say something, why is he choosing now to speak? – John peeks his head back around the doorway.

 

“Have you and Paul talked about what happened?”

 

John freezes in place.

 

He can't move, can't think properly. He's watching the roof of his life collapse in on itself, hitting him and crushing his organs against his bones. In the space of a second, he feels like everything has fallen apart. His stomach is sinking so far down his body he’s positive it’s all going to fall out, smack against the floor and splatter up Stuart’s wall. No. He has to compose himself.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" John demands, tone cold as he attempts to come across like he's offended - but he's not. Not really. He knows now, knows what he truly feels. There's no reason for him to be so defensive, he just has to be afraid of the rest of the world now. And if that means sticking to his guns, to his 'how dare you even insinuate that I, John Winston Lennon, am a homosexual?' routine, then so be it.

 

He forces his jaw to harden as he stares at Stuart, waiting.

 

" _I_  was out with the lads from college last night, John," Stuart says back. He begins to smirk as he rakes his gaze over John's body, looking him up and down. "And you're wearing that god-awful jumper that we always take the piss out of Paul for wearing..." he adds playfully. 

 

 _Of fucking course._  

 

How could he forget he was wearing _Paul's_  jumper?

 

John isn't sure how to react - is this a trap? People just aren't usually okay with this sort of thing...with boys kissing other boys...

 

John doesn't say anything, just stares back at Stuart with squinty eyes, suspicion radiating from his centre. There's no way Stuart is just fine with all of this, is there?

 

"John..." Stuart stands up, crosses the room to stand in front of John, who is back to hiding around the other side of the doorway. John finally meets his gaze, meets kind eyes and a gentle smile that's small, but still there.

 

"Fuck...It's..." 

 

" _Johnny-_ " Stuart reaches his hand out, wraps it around John's arm like he's done so many times before. He smiles as he squeezes the skin he's got a grip on, slowly. There's so much emotion in his eyes, so much written on his face - it's acceptance. Plain and simple, a smile that says 'I know and I still love you' and 'You're still my friend', everything he's not saying with his lips. John caves, deflates in Stuart's hold as the tension finally begins to leave his body.

 

"-I don't know why I feel like this...He's just..." John looks down to Stuart's hand, to the writing that rests on his arm beneath that jumper. He swallows, throat thick with spit as his skin prickles, hairs standing on end.

  

"I just hope it's him..." Barely a whisper, a confession escaping his lips that he never thought he would be admitting to anybody out loud. It's wrong, it's so wrong it's something he shouldn't have ever even been thinking about in the first place, let alone be saying out loud. Stuart just smiles again, his lips parting slightly as he watches John, bashful and quiet for possibly the first time in his life with somebody that _isn't_  Paul.

 

"I know you do," Stuart says back softly. "It could be," he says as he begins to stroke John's arm, strokes his fingers against the material of the jumper, fingers ghosting over where John's writing lies etched into his arm.

 

John closes his eyes, breathes out a heavy sigh of relief as he feels the tension in his shoulders and back slowly begins to ooze away. 

 

"Have you spoke to Paul about it?" Stuart repeats, hands releasing their grip on John's arm as he begins to lean his back against the wall, facing John. He crosses his arms over his chest as John shakes his head in response.

 

"What is there to say? I-"

 

"-Oh, give over Lennon. You're the boldest bastard I've ever met, but whenever it comes to Paul you're like a bloody school girl..." Stuart tuts, but there's a smirk on his face - no hard feelings. 

 

"Sod off," John spits back, although half-heartedly. He averts his gaze from his friend down to his socked feet, distracted by the view of Paul's jumper hanging over his upper half. 

 

With Stuart momentarily forgotten, John pulls at the bottom of the jumper, soft fingers pressing into the warm, woolly material. He begins to smile as he thinks back to the previous night, remembering how Paul had grabbed this specifically for John to wear, because he was worried that he'd get too cold in just his parka. Paul was fucking adorable, even if he did look ridiculous in all of his silly fancy clothes - which were now beginning to be seen less and less as Paul had made his dad buy him more fitting outfits so that he could blend more seamlessly into the gang of teenage boys that had assembled over the past almost-year.

 

“I think you need to go see Paul…And to stop giving the goo eyes to that ugly thing,” Stuart laughs.

 

John opens his mouth to protest, but when he looks back up into Stuart’s eyes he sees nothing but love. He can see a love inside of his eyes that burns, burns for John alone. John smiles sheepishly back at him, cheeks burning at being caught in his moment of fixation.

 

“I guess I’ll just have to love you and leave you for today, then,” John smirks, grabs at Stuart’s hand and playfully bows at him. Stuart chuckles back, indulging him by bowing too.

 

“God, how will I ever survive without you crawling all over my floor and distracting me from that assignment?” Stuart sighs, places his free hand dramatically over his chest. John simply shakes his head, but doesn’t hesitate when he leans forward and wraps his arms around the other boy.

 

There’s a beat, a simple silence that falls over the entire house as Stuart’s arms tighten around John, as John finds himself burying his long nose into the side of Stuart’s hair. He breathes in, shaky and loud as he thanks whatever God is up there that someone as loving and accepting as Stuart managed to fall into his life. If he would have been beaten to a pulp and left for dead in this house today, John is sure he would have deserved it. Because boys like John and Paul…that’s what everyone thinks they deserve, isn’t it?

 

And yet here, currently residing in John’s arms, pressed against his body, is somebody who dares to challenge the belief, the god damn _law_  that places boys like John and Paul in that position – where they can be expected to be beaten, killed, just because of one tiny little difference. John would never tell everybody the truth, and he’s sure that Paul feels the same way, if the sad look in his eyes last night as they fell asleep is anything to go by.

 

 

He’s almost at Paul’s house, just around the corner from Paul’s block. He left Stuart, albeit reluctantly, to find Paul and finally have a chat with him. He wasn’t so concerned when he woke up this morning to an empty space next to him in bed – it wasn’t unusual for him to wake up and find Paul already gone most mornings when he’d stayed the night, but things were different now. And what if Paul woke up this morning and thought it was all a big mistake, thought it was something (someone, _John_ ) he didn’t want anymore?

 

There's somebody out in the distance, a little further up the street. They're walking towards him, head lowered to the pavement and hands shoved deep inside of their pockets, like they're thinking really hard about something. John tries to focus, but without his glasses on it feels useless. Wait...is that?

 

"John...?" 

 

It is. _Great_.

 

George picks up his pace after the realisation of who he is walking towards, walks down the rest of the street in no time and is stood before John, reaching a hand out of his pocket to scratch at the hairs on top of his head. He smiles, lopsided as his mouth opens and exposes big fangs. John simply grimaces back. He wasn’t planning on running into anybody else today, and especially not George. He just wanted to see Paul, for Christ’s sake.

 

"What are you doing around here?" George asks, still that smile on his face. His hopeful eyes are accompanied by long eyelashes, but they don't look like Paul's at all. It's not even been a day since he last saw him, but God does John miss those big, doe-like eyes staring at him, head rested on a pillow and face turned towards him, all soft smiles and soft lips...

 

"On my way to Paul's," John manages to find his voice again, trying to shake the previous thought from his mind. Christ. Stuart was right – he was like a fucking schoolgirl with a crush when it comes to Paul. 

 

George pulls a face, breaks the eye contact between them as he looks across the street, like there's something holding his attention there. John follows his gaze slowly, only to discover that George is simply staring at a small tree. Oh. 

 

"He's grounded, actually," George says, clears his throat after it. "His dad caught him sneaking in the house this morning. Apparently, he snuck out the bathroom window last night..." Finally, George turns his attention back to John. His eyes are narrowed slightly, his thick, wild brows pulled together as his face hardens, just the slightest. John would probably find it intimidating if George wasn't a fourteen-year-old. Maybe when he's older he'll be a bit scarier to deal with, but right now he just looks hilarious in a pathetic kind of way.

 

John bites at the inside of his cheek, tries to suppress the smirk that he can feel beginning to build the longer he stares at this kid trying to act tough. George's eyes trail up slightly, to John's chest. Then his face scrunches up.

 

"Isn't that Paul's jumper?" 

 

John's hands shoot up to his chest, a frown firmly planting itself on his lips in record speed. It's fine, Stuart knowing and all. But George? John doesn't know the kid, has barely ever spoken to him. Yeah, he might be Paul’s best mate, but that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. He doesn't _deserve_  to know. Nobody does. A look of realisation dawns on George's face slowly, and then he's suddenly mirroring the frown that John is wearing. He scoffs.

 

"Should have known it was something to do with _you_..." he mutters.

 

John feels his spine prickle, his back tensing and pulling up like he's a cat backed in a corner. It's only a matter of time before he starts to bite and claw his way out.

 

"Does your mum know you're all the way out here darling? Only, when I was your age Mimi didn't like me wandering too far off the block..." John sneers, mouth twisting up into a mocking smile. George huffs out a frustrated breath, but other than that gives nothing back. Instead, he chooses to completely bypass John's comment altogether.

 

"It's always your fault. He keeps getting in trouble lately and it's always because of you. Paul deserves better," George states, voice clearly laced with irritation as he crosses his arms. "He's smoking, skipping school, sneaking out...The rumors were right about you, _John Lennon_..."

 

He's fighting the anger that's beginning to bud inside of him, staring with cold, narrowed eyes down at the younger boy stood before him. He has half a mind to just sock him in his stupid, long face. Is he really going to stoop as low as hitting a fourteen-year-old? 

 

"What rumors?" John asks, though he's pretty sure he already knows most of them. Like Jim (and everybody else’s parents) had been saying, he was a ‘bad apple’. A ‘defected soul’, for sure.

 

"That you're a cocky, rude, conniving bastard. You think you're so much better than everyone else," George lists on his fingers, frown etched into his face so deeply John is pretty sure he can see his skin permanently molding to accompany it.

 

The anger rises inside of him like boiling heat, spreading up his chest and into his throat. He takes a step forward, hangs over George like an animal closing in on its prey. He grins, large and unnerving and for a brief moment he watches as George's eyes flash with something - fear.

 

"Jealous that Paulie has found someone better, are we?" 

 

George snorts - no trace of the fear in his eyes any longer.

 

"Jealous of what? Do you know what people say about you behind your back, John? They say you're a defect. You shouldn't have ever existed," George smirks. "They say you're a freak...aren't soul mates supposed to be together forever? So why did your mum open her legs for any man that walked by whilst your dad was gone? Where's your dad now, John?" 

 

"Shut the fuck up," The words fly out of John's mouth before he even has time to process them inside of his own mind. His eyes feel wide, manic with rage as he closes more of the distance between them. George barely falters, carries on talking despite John's warning.

 

"Why didn't your aunt ever find her soul mate? She settled, for who? A fucking milkman?" The mention of Mimi, the biggest beacon of light in his life is enough. He owes his entire existence to her. She took him in when his own parents didn't want him, got him everything he asked with (almost) no complaints. She is his biggest lifeline.

 

John lurches forward, grabs at George's coat with his hands and lifts him up off of the ground. George widens his eyes, face falling as John slams him into the wall behind them. 

 

"If you think I won't beat the absolute shit out of you just because you're a child you've got another thing coming you little fucker!" John shouts, spit flying from his mouth and onto George's face. George squeezes his eyes shut, recoils his face as his body begins to shake slightly under John's violent grip.

 

John stares at him, curling in on himself and attempting to shield away from the aggression. Every part of his heart is telling him to punch him in his stupid fucking face, right in those high resting cheekbones until they're so swollen he can't open his eyes. He wants to throw him on the floor - stomp him into the concrete beneath their feet. Anything to make him hurt.

 

When he tries, when he attempts to grip tighter - turn his knuckles white with the force of his touch - he can't. He can't bring himself to do it. 

 

All he can see is Paul. Paul's angry, terrified face when he finds out that John has beaten his friend to a pulp. The look of confusion, the look of hurt. George was Paul's closest friend after himself. He wouldn't ever forgive John for doing something like that, would he? 

 

John releases his grip on George. The younger boy drops to the floor, staggers and falls back against the wall. He sinks to the floor, gasping and holding his hand to his chest. He stares up at John, big, terrified eyes as his mouth falls open. His hand is shaking.

 

"You talk about me or my family like that ever again and I'll fucking kill you, alright? I mean it," John states, straightening some of the creases in Paul’s jumper out. There's no need for him to do it, but he just needs something to distract himself. He can't bring himself to look at George, not with the building guilt that's beginning to settle in now that he’s had a moment to calm down.

 

"I-I'm sorry..." George splutters, voice trembling as he continues to gawp at John. John gives him a small grimace in response, turning his head away.

 

"You can forget about being in the band," He says instead. His hands fall into his pockets as he turns his body away. John scans the area quickly - nobody is around. Thank God, he thinks. "Get up, you look like a fucking idiot," John adds, eyes still inspecting the street. 

 

He hears George scramble up before he sees him, head bobbing up as he tries to straighten out his clothes and dust the dirt off with his fingers.

 

"John?" His little voice calls out, body scrambling around as he comes to face John again. John pulls his face, feels his heart fall down his chest and into his stomach. It smacks against his rib cage the longer it falls, bouncing from one bone to the next. John averts his eyes from George again, looks off to the side instead.

 

"...Paul said to meet him outside his house Monday morning...before school..." George's voice trails off, he tries to come into John's line of sight again, but is stopped when John raises his hand up at him.

 

"Alright," John's voice is cold, devoid of its usual expression – his usual positivity, his usual mocking – anything. He reaches into his pocket and fumbles his fingers over his deck of cigarettes, his body numb.  

 

He doubts Paul will even want to see him Monday, if ever again, after George tells him about _this._  


	15. my mother seems to know it all (sensed it from a distant call)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i get my life together it just kicks me back down onto my dumb ass. sorry for the wait everyone, but as promised - here is some fluff!  
> as always thank you all so much for commenting, they inspire me to keep writing and put a stupid smile on my face that i can't knock off for weeks <3  
> i hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a little bit longer than usual to (hopefully) make up for the wait!
> 
> -
> 
> chapter title comes from the song 'i'm lying to you cause i'm lost' by the paper kites

When the front door finally opens, John jolts in surprise. The cigarette he was holding between his fingers slips through the spaces between them and falls to the floor as he tries to get a hold of his now slightly trembling hands.

 

God, he feels sick. His throats feels all tingly and dry, like it's going to close up for good any second. Reluctantly, he turns his head towards the door.

 

Paul is grinning at him as he releases his grip on the handle to the door. He gives a nod of acknowledgment, crosses the short distance to stand by John's side as he rubs his hands together, pushing puffs of air into his clasped hands to try and fight off the morning chill that's hanging in the air. Despite the nerves, John smiles back at him - lips starting to wobble goofily as he watches Paul struggle to keep warm. He has half a mind to give him the clothes off of his back...

 

"Bet you're missing that jumper now?" John jokes. Paul chuckles into his hands, nodding his head with enthusiasm.

 

"Now that you understand how warm it is you might stop taking the piss out of me every time I wear it," Paul mumbles back. John raises an eyebrow, feels the beginning of a mischievous smirk clinging to the edges of his mouth.

 

"Who said you're even getting it back?" He retorts. Paul tuts, eyes rolling as he speaks outside of the gap in his hands for a moment. 

 

"Please, John. Look at me! Am gonna freeze without it..." Paul pleads dramatically, batting those long black eyelashes at the older of the two. John tuts back, mirroring the noise as he watches him bring his clasped hands back up to his mouth. He swallows, closing his mouth and halting the train of teasing remarks channeling through his mind.

 

Instead, John takes a small step, turns to face Paul, who simply peers up at him with curious eyes. John smiles softly, slowly placing his own gloved hands on top of Paul's. He begins rubbing at Paul's skin, trying to create friction. Hopefully, it'll warm his fingers up. 

 

He watches as Paul's already pink cheeks turn darker, as he slowly removes his mouth from his hands and leans up towards John. There's a small, shy smile on his lips and it makes John's heart feel like it's radiating warmth all up and down his chilly body. Ducking his head, Paul looks away.

 

"We're outside my house..." He whispers, voice quiet and unsure. John squeezes Paul's hands in his own.

 

"Everyone's at work, or school, babe," He says quietly back. He can't fight the smile that breaks out when Paul finally looks back up at him. He can't even try to conceal the breath he releases - the evidence of it falling into the air in a white smoke betrays him. 

 

Without hesitation, John releases his grip on Paul's hands, doesn't miss the way Paul's face falls, even if it is only a second until his expression fixes once more. 

 

John struggles, wriggles until the gloves are off his hands. He places them in Paul's, curl's Paul's fingers around them and closes them so that he has a grip of the material. He squeezes again, albeit much softer this time. Paul's blush is back on his cheeks. The fire is back burning inside of John's chest. 

 

"John..."

 

"-Don't start. Just put them on," John interrupts, voice feigning exasperation. 

 

Paul obliges, quickly pulls them over his own hands and looks at John with a grateful smile.

 

John simply smiles back - because what else would he do? Paul was cold, Paul was more sensitive to cold weather than he was, which is why he is always in that bloody awful jumper, _John's_  bloody awful jumper, now, thanks. The chill has already begun to bite at his fingertips, but it doesn't bother him enough for him to complain or dwell on it. Paul's warmth and comfort are much higher on the scale of priorities than his own are. Besides, it's an offering in exchange for the item of clothing Paul had so generously donated to him - was he aware that he wasn't going to get that back now, that it was going to be John's for the rest of their lives? He barely has time to explore the thought when he hears Paul's gasp.

 

"Johnny, your knuckles...Your knuckles are all..." 

 

John hisses at the sensation of gloved fingertips ghosting over the cuts on his knuckles, red and swollen still. They're a bit ripped up from the scuffle he had with George. He hadn't noticed it happening at the moment, was probably concentrating too hard on not beating the shit out of George, to be honest. Paul gives him a look, brows pulled together in worry.

 

"I'm sorry! Are you alright?" He frets, sad brown eyes connecting with his own hazel. John simply nods, forces a smile - he's not so sure Paul is convinced by the act. 

 

But then he feels arms snaking around his middle, and Paul is pressed into him, head tilted back as he stares up at the taller boy. 

 

"Fuck school," Paul says simply, smiling widely. John splutters, surprised at the sudden statement. He chuckles.

 

"Sneaks out one time…" John teases. Every part of his brain is telling him to unwrap Paul's arms from around him, to create some distance between the two - they're just outside his door, what if a neighbour catches them? Or worse...What if Jim makes a sudden reappearance like last time? It's fine, John giving him his gloves - that's what mates do. But this? This is definitely not what mates do.

 

"Come on, Johnny..." Paul whines, jutting out his bottom lip out to form a pout. It takes every inch of self-control John has to not lean down and kiss him. "We can go anywhere! We can do anything! Please?" Paul practically begs.

 

"You don't have to convince me to bunk off, you know," John smirks. Paul falters for a second, but starts snickering.

 

" _You know,_ " Paul repeats, wriggling his eyebrows playfully as he stares up at John, biting his bottom lip to try and suppress the giggle bubbling up inside of him. 

 

John's eyes widen - had he really just said that? But that was Paul's thing, wasn't it? He huffs out a breath, lazy smile gracing his lips as he stares at Paul, struggling not to reach out and touch.

 

There’s a noise from across the road, a front door opening. John feels Paul’s hand squeeze, pinch against the skin on his back as he peers around John to investigate the noise. John turns his head, too, seeing someone leaving their house. Luckily, the woman in question is staring down at her bag, arm buried deep inside as she roots for something at the bottom. Quickly, Paul untangles himself from John's body and takes a step back, forcing a smile when John turns his head back to him, their eyes finally meeting again. 

 

 _It's okay,_  John thinks. He understands.

 

"Well then...Where do you have in mind?" John asks, attempting to change the mood. Things got a bit dark and scary just a second ago. He needs to keep on his feet, how did they almost get caught already?

 

Paul shrugs his shoulders, giving John a crooked smile.

 

"Dunno really...Hadn't really thought 'bout it..." He says sheepishly. 

 

John sighs through his smile, shakes his head despite the look of endearment he probably has plastered all over his face. Paul's so daft sometimes – always ready to rush into things, even if he doesn’t have the most concrete plan. John swears he didn’t use to be like this. Maybe it’s his influence.

 

"Well, we can't really go that far. If we go into town I'm pretty sure someone will spot us and grass us up, so..." John trails off, the cogs in his brain turning as he attempts to think. 

 

Where could they go? Paul's house is right here, and it's empty but...the thought of Paul's dad catching them bunking off, sat in Paul's bedroom again - maybe even doing something more than just playing music this time - it's not worth the risk to John. He doesn't want to have to ever watch Paul get into trouble because of him again. He's pretty sure he would attack Jim this time if he lay a finger on Paul.

 

John's house was out of the question. Mimi can come home at the most unexpected times. Sometimes she'll be straight home from work, sometimes she'll be out for hours. Sometimes she'll even be home early. The prospect of getting caught by Mimi doesn't scare John in the slightest, but she might take his guitar away again, and she'd definitely tell Jim that Paul had been there...And Paul is already grounded, so the punishment would probably be worse...

 

John scrunches his face up, long nose wriggling as he continues to list places off in his head. 

 

 _Wait._  Of course! How could he forget? 

 

John's eyes find Paul's within seconds, his mouth opening to speak but he's interrupted by Paul, voice low and a mischievous smirk on his lips.

 

"Lead the way, Johnny boy," Paul grins.

 

 

 

"Aren't you two supposed to be in school?"

 

"College, mum. God," John interrupts, tutting. He's not a child anymore, he doesn't need to go to _school_.

 

The same can't be said about Paul, though...

 

Julia simply stares back at him, unimpressed as her lips pull into a firm, serious line. She shifts her attention to Paul. 

 

"What would your dad say if he could see you right now, Paul?" 

 

Paul's cheeks are red, flushed with embarrassment as he averts his gaze to the ground, attempting to hide his face. He shrugs back silently.

 

John's brow furrows together as he watches Paul. He'd give anything to be able to wrap his arm around him right now. He'd do anything if it meant he was allowed to pull Paul into his side, kiss his head and tell him to calm down, to not listen to Julia. 

 

But he can't do any of that stuff. Because he's not allowed to kiss boys, or chase the butterflies in his stomach that only form when Paul is by his side. 

 

"Leave it out. He's grounded, this is the only way we can see each other," John says, voice falling softer as he finds his eyes firmly glued on Paul, who is finally lifting his head from the ground. 

 

He sneaks a glance at John, finds John's already staring. Cheeks still pink, Paul bites down on his bottom lip as the corners of his mouth begin to twitch upwards. John can't help but stare, doesn't think he can break the trance Paul has him under. They exchange small smiles until Paul finally pulls his eyes away from John and up to Julia.

 

It's funny how Paul always makes him forget there are other people that exist in the universe. He looks up to his mum expectantly, eyes pleading.

 

She sighs.

 

"Fine...But you're not doing this every day!" Julia smirks, the same smirk John always sees on himself in photographs. She shifts, leans her back against the door as the two boys squeeze past her and into the house. 

 

As Julia turns away from them to shut the door, as the two make their way into the living room, John leans forward and places a hand on the small of Paul's back, rubs gently into the fabric of Paul's coat. He hears Paul let out a breathless chuckle. 

 

"Stop..." Paul mumbles, tone playful but equally shy. John leans into his ear, feels Paul's soft hair tickling at his nostrils.

 

"You're the one that's goin' to get us caught if you talk in that voice..." John whispers back. 

 

The door shuts.

 

Paul picks up his pace, drops himself into a seat quicker than John can blink. The only evidence left of their flirty encounter is the fading blush splattered across Paul's cheeks.

 

"You both look absolutely freezing! Get in front of that fire, I'll make you both a bru," Julia gasps, footsteps traveling from the living room door up the hall, into the kitchen. 

 

John peels his coat off, ignores the heavy stinging on his ears and fingers. He must have been a lot colder than he realised. When he sits himself down on the floor in front of the fire, Paul follows him, coat and John's gloves folded neatly on one of the couch cushions.

 

"Your fingers are freezing. Should have took them gloves back," Paul states, reaching out to place his hands over John's, sandwiching them with warmth.

 

John can feel the heat picking up in his cheeks. He's trying hard to fight it off, but with Paul sat so close to him, alone, in front of a warm fireplace - well, it's hard not to let his thoughts wander with the romantic circumstance.

 

"You needed them," John replies, shoulders shrugging lightly. Paul smiles back at him, mouth lopsided as he simply stares. 

 

"Never had you down as a romantic, John Lennon," Paul teases, eyes narrowing playfully. 

 

"I'm an art student who plays music and writes poetry and songs in his spare time. What's _not_  romantic about that?" John quips back, smirking.

 

"You? Romantic?" Julia's voice interrupts from the doorway. John and Paul both turn to stare at her, eyes wide. Paul's hands quickly unsnake themselves from around John's, falling to rest on his knees. 

 

Her eyes follow Paul's hands for a moment, but she quickly rebuffs and places three cups of tea on the coffee table in front of John and Paul.

 

"You're vulgar," She adds, picking up her own mug and sitting down on the couch. John scoffs, though he isn't offended - it's true, after all.

 

"An absolute terror, to be honest," Paul chimes in, reaching forward to grab at his own mug. He catches John's eye as he leans forward, shooting him a small smirk. "Thank you," he says to Julia, who simply waves her hand back at him, smiling. 

 

"Right Paul, I'm not bringing you here again. You both gang up on me too much," John pouts.

 

"So, what's been going on?" Julia changes the subject, and John shoots her a grateful look. God, how embarrassing that she walked in on him attempting to have a _moment_  with Paul. He really should be more careful, but it's hard to control himself now that he’s had a taste of Paul. He wants more, wants to fill himself up on the sensation of being near Paul and touching Paul and tasting Paul – God.

 

"Well...We got a new band member. My mate George, he's amazing at guitar. Will have to show you sometime, come to one of our gigs again," Paul begins to ramble. Julia's eyes light up, and she leans forward as she takes a sip from her mug.

 

John's mouth wobbles as his smile falters. Shit. So, Paul hadn't spoken to George yet. He didn't know that George was out of the band, that John threatened him. That's probably why he's been being so nice - because he doesn't know just what John had done yet. 

 

John watches Paul, watches the way he's smiling big and gushing about George to Julia, like a proud parent who is shoving their child's accomplishments in the face of anybody who’s willing to listen. John wonders if Paul ever talks about him like this. 

 

"Just invite him here sometime! I'd love to meet him," Julia grins. The two carry on their flurry of conversation, talking about the band and George and Paul's school life - all while smiling and bantering with each other. John forces a smile as he catches his mother's eye, but he can't help but let his mind wander.

 

Paul probably doesn't talk about him like that. John is probably, to some extent, a secret in Paul's life - someone who he keeps quiet about, who he doesn't mention much. After all, what George said was true. People don't like John around here - they don't like his attitude, his background, his parents, his _soul._  Paul is probably ashamed to be friends with someone like that deep down, especially considering how he's so straight edge, or was when they first met. He probably gets teased for associating himself with someone like John, surely.

 

"John, love, your tea is going to go cold," Paul's soft voice wavers through the ocean of thoughts John finds himself beginning to drown in, pulling him back into reality and planting him firmly on the ground once more. John blinks, exchanges a nervous look with Paul as the younger boy simply lifts his mug up to take a drink. Did he really just say that in front of his mother?

 

John chances a glance to her, sees that Julia is simply chuckling at the two, soft and low. 

 

"He fusses over you more than I do," she says quietly. John's face is burning, hot embarrassment trailing up and down his skin like tiny pricks to his flesh. He looks down.

 

"Can we put on some Elvis?" John asks instead. 

 

 

 

He leans his elbows over the counter, staring silently out the window as he watches the rain drip down the glass, droplets racing past one another until they reach the building puddle gathering at an alarming rate at the bottom.

 

"How did you get this one? I can't get it anywhere!" Paul asks. John turns his head slightly, catches the sight of the younger boy hunched over the record player. He lifts a vinyl sleeve up to Julia, eyes wide and curious. It's the latest Elvis record, one called ‘True Love’.

 

She opens her mouth to speak, but John interrupts her.

 

"I swapped it with some sailor at the docks," He answers, puffing his chest out in pride as he turns and leans his back against the counter, facing the two finally. At first Paul seems slightly taken aback to hear John's voice after he'd just spent so long saying nothing at all. But then he arches an eyebrow, makes a nod of his head as if to say 'fair enough' and simply places the sleeve back down. 

 

Only ever so slightly disappointed by Paul's lack of reaction, John takes a few steps forward before he reaches the kitchen table. He takes a seat in the chair across from his mother, looking between her and Paul.

 

"It's a lovely one, this. Have you heard the lyrics?" Julia asks, smiling wide as she taps her finger against the table. She closes her eyes, breathes out softly as the two boys watch her. " _While I give to you and you give to me...true love...true love…_ " Julia sings, smile turning lazy as she begins to lose herself in the song. John recognises that kind of feeling, finds himself doing the same thing all of the time when he's alone in his room listening to the radio, when he's sat huddled around a record player with the boys. He realises in the moment, that this is probably why he gets like that sometimes.

 

His eyes wander from his mother slowly towards Paul, but when he finally settles his gaze he quickly discovers that a pair of twinkling brown eyes are already staring at him. Paul blinks, tries to hide the small pink on his cheeks as he attempts to keep his cool by walking towards John.

 

He pulls out the chair from next to John, plonks his bum down and wriggles forward to lean his elbows on the table.

 

Julia still has her eyes closed, is humming along quietly with the lyrics and John takes the rare, almost private opportunity to reach his arm under the table. He places his hand on Paul's thigh and gives a gentle squeeze, resting his chin in his free hand. Paul squawks, pushing John's hand away. 

 

Julia's eyes snap open, brow lowering as she stares at the two boys. Paul swallows.

 

"I didn't hit you that hard!" John exclaims, arms flinging up and out in dramatic exaggeration. God, has he always been an awful liar and is just realising it now, or is he just an awful liar when it comes to Paul? 

 

Luckily, Paul catches on quickly and narrows his eyes at John, jutting his bottom lip out to pout.

 

"Yer flicked me on my ear! Hurts, that does, you know, John. Maybe someday someone will do it to _you,_ " He spits back, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms over his chest. 

 

John smiles despite the charade. Paul looks adorable with his bottom lip sticking out, a fake frown on his face. John fights the itching sensation in his brain to reach forward and plant a kiss on those inviting lips.

 

"So, Paul," Julia says, bringing the two to her attention once more. She leans forward, rests her chin in the palm of her hand just like John. She smirks, a mischievous look that makes John's stomach flip with uncertainty. If John has learned anything from his mother, it's that she's just as unpredictable as he is. "Sixteen soon, aren't you?" She asks.

 

Paul nods his head, a nervous tick to it that it makes it look almost robotic. John's brow furrows as he simply listens. Julia makes a hum that escapes from the back of her throat and through her rogue painted lips. 

 

"I remember when I turned sixteen. I was so excited for my mark. Couldn't stop talking about it for months before and months after. Have you given it any thought, what or who you think it might be?"

 

John hides his head in his hands, pulling at the skin as he groans into his palm. 

 

"Oh my god..." He mumbles under his breath. He feels someone kick him in his shin, a quick thwack followed by a sting. He removes his hands from his face, sees Paul staring at him with narrowed eyes, a look that's warning him. 'Be nice'. Paul straightens his body up after that, wriggles slightly in his seat once more as he plants a delicate smile on his lips. John braces himself, eyes unwavering from Paul’s figure as he witnesses every tick, every nervous movement with great detail. He couldn’t deny that he was curious to find out what’s going through Paul’s mind, too. Even if he’s sure this answer has the potential to break his heart.

 

“Well…” Paul starts, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip as he begins to think. There’s that look of concentration on his face, the one where he’s trying to choose his words very carefully. He isn’t looking at John nor Julia – his gaze is planted firmly on the window, watching the rain as he formulates a sentence in his brain. “My dad got his when he turned sixteen, but my mums…” Paul’s voice wavers ever so slightly. “My mums took a while. And people always tell me how I’m so much like her…So…” He smiles sadly, lips wobbling.

 

Julia tuts, leaning forward as she grabs at Paul’s hand with her own. She laces their fingers together and smiles sympathetically at him, a smile which he returns.

 

Julia has always been like that with Paul, especially about his mum. When John first started bringing him over, she’d always pull him aside before he’d leave, long after Paul would have caught his bus and be on his way home.

 

'That’s awful, that is, John. No boy should have to lose his mother so young,' She would say, face contorted into a frown. She’d always be fretting and fussing over Paul – always making sure he was okay, making sure he had enough to eat. She is as wrapped around his little finger just as much as John is.

 

“I’m not holding out much hope I’ll get it when I turn sixteen. Besides, it’s all a bit silly, isn’t it? Soul mates…”

 

“What? But I thought you bought into all of that?” John finally speaks up. Paul gives him a funny look in response, but John can’t help the desperate tone of his voice because for _fuck_  sake, of course Paul is starting to doubt it all just as he starts to believe in it all. Isn’t that just his luck?

 

“I did…But you and Stuart, the way you talk about it…I suppose you must be a little bit right – just one person built for another? Seems a little bit stupid now, with so many people on the planet. I dunno…” Paul trails off, hands fitting between his thighs as he averts his gaze downwards towards the table.

 

The record crackles, fizzes out of life.

 

John fights the urge to slam his head against the table, slam it repeatedly into the wood until the splinters are etched deep into his skin. How has this happened? How can Paul suddenly be so apprehensive to believe in soul mates when just months ago he had blind, idiotic confidence in the system? He was just like the rest of them – conditioned by the state to buy into the game where everyone’s fates were predetermined. And…Wait…Isn’t that what John is becoming now?

 

“Well, I think it’s awful sad that you’ve changed your mind. It’s not a conspiracy, you know,” Julia, lovely, heavenly Julia chimes in. Even though John isn’t sure that he entirely agrees with her, he’s thankful that there is somebody else here to try and sway Paul’s mindset. Obviously, he can’t. Because now Paul thinks he hates soulmates and the idea of marks – which he does. Deep down. Maybe.

 

Of course, he does, of course he still hates it all. He’s just stuck right now, stuck in this fantasy of pretending that there is even the slightest possibility that Paul may share his mark. As soon as Paul gets his mark, and it’s one that is definitely not matching John’s, then they can all move forward – Paul can find his nice, pretty, decidedly female soulmate and settle down. John can continue being with Cynthia until she inevitably meets her own soulmate, where she’ll leave John in the dust just like he deserves. John doesn’t deserve a girl as kind as Cynthia. He doesn’t deserve a boy as loving as Paul. Come to think of it, John’s not sure he deserves a lot at this point…

 

“Yeah, maybe…Maybe I’ve just been listening to those two loons a bit too much,” Paul smirks, gesturing his head towards John. Julia chuckles back at him.

 

“They’re art students, for Christ’s sake. All that brooding and existentialism is just part of their image. Don’t let them get inside your head, lovely Paul,” Julia grins from across the table, winking at Paul as she pushes her chair out and stands up. John narrows his eyes up at his mother, opens his mouth to defend both himself and Stuart but Julia beats him to the finishing line.

 

“I need to go pick up the girls from school. You can stay here, if you want though. That weather is awful…Besides, you haven’t seen the girls for a while now, John. They miss you,” She flurries around the kitchen, slipping her arms into her coat and grabbing an umbrella from a basket beside the back door. Heels clicking against the kitchen tiles as she retreats, Paul shouts a polite ‘goodbye’, which she returns, as the front door finally opens and closes.

 

 

A silence surrounds them, begins to engulf John as he struggles, for once, to find words to say. The previous conversation is still tugging in the forefront of his mind, replaying over and over again. He just can’t quite fully wrap his head around the fact that Paul has changed his mind. Hopefully, he’ll change it again when he eventually gets his mark – which could very well be soon. His birthday is in just a few months. Surely, if his dad got his mark early, then Paul stands a good chance of getting his early, too.

“My Son John…” Paul says quietly, voice coming from over by the record player. John jumps in his seat, body twitching as he falls out of his daydream. He hadn’t even realised that Paul had moved. John turns his neck to the side; watches Paul trace his fingers over the sleeve of the record delicately. He grimaces down at the cover, refusing to meet John’s eye.

 

“I like when we come and see your mum…” Paul’s eyes flicker up and down the cover, expression serious as he goes silent for a moment. John simply watches him, doesn’t think that saying something is the right decision at this second. “Feels nice to talk to a mum…A _real_  mum, who can laugh and joke…and give me advice…” His voice falls flat.

 

John can see the glaze beginning to build in his eyes, the smile waver until it crumbles from his face. He freezes for a moment, frowning down at the cover of the sleeve as the silence rings between John’s ears, makes his head feel like it’s going to explode. John shifts in his seat, leans forward to place one foot on the ground – if Paul needs him to, he’ll come over in a flash. But John’s movement, however small, seems to spark an essence of life back into Paul, and he blinks.

 

Then he’s placing the record down and rooting around in the collection randomly, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels around for a little longer, before pulling a new sleeve out of the box. When he opens his eyes, his face scrunches up in a displeased way. John can’t help the fond smile that breaks out as he watches Paul do it.

 

“The Ink Spots? Christ, John. Didn’t know Julia liked crooners,” Paul teases, turning the cover over so that John can see it, too. John cranes his neck out, squints, can’t see without his glasses what the cover says, but he already knows the group since Paul announced it out loud. He chuckles, and shakes his head.

 

“She doesn’t. Twitchy is into all that, though,” John smiles. Paul simply pulls a disgusted face, but slips the vinyl out of the sleeve anyway. He spins it over in his fingers a few times.

 

"My grandparents like this one," Paul says. 

 

John stands up suddenly, feels the need to get a little bit closer to Paul as he crosses the short distance between them until he's squatting down over the record collection too. 

 

"Do you want to talk, about your mum?" John asks, stares at Paul despite the other boy's eyes being firmly fixed on the grooves of the vinyl between his hands. 

 

"Not really...Do you want to listen to this?" Paul asks instead, glances sideways at John with a small, mischievous smirk.

 

"Not really," John smiles back at him, despite the small ache in his chest at being rejected. He supposes Paul will come around in his own time, but it hurts watching him get upset over his mum and not being able to do anything to help. 

 

Paul puts the record on. It crackles for a few seconds, until the needle hits the right groove. Music pours into the room, and Paul pulls himself up to a standing position. John stares up at him, mouth opening slightly as he gapes at the younger boy.

 

" _I don't want to set the world on fire..._ " Paul sings quietly. John smiles, bends his legs so that he's also standing. He offers his hand out to Paul, who simply raises a confused, but curious, eyebrow back at him. 

 

" _I just want to start a flame in your heart,_ " John sings back, fingers wriggling as he continues to smile. Paul hesitates for a second, even rolls his eyes as he places his hand in John's, but he's smiling - brown eyes all soft, smile fond and a lazy kind of affection laced into his features. It makes John's heart sore.

 

He pulls Paul into him, chest to chest as their hands clasp together. Paul looks up at him through his eyelashes, lips parted slightly as he anticipates John's next move. Pools of brown mixing together, their stares lingering in each other's eyes as a toothy smile spreads across John's face in record speed. He wants to kiss Paul so badly. He leans forward, begins to close his eyes as his lips begin to ghost over Paul's own. His chest begins to tingle, heart racing as he leans in closer for the kiss -

 

Paul takes a step, leading John into a slow waltz. 

 

John's eyes fly open, straight into the kaleidoscope swamp of narrowed eyes staring back at him. Paul is smirking, an eyebrow raised teasingly. John wants to fucking scream. 

 

"In my heart I have but one desire..." John says along with the song through gritted teeth. Paul simply chuckles back, a small 'oh really?' leaving his lips as he continues to waltz John around the kitchen. He can't stay mad though, never can, when it comes to Paul. He leans closer again, rests his chin on Paul's shoulder.

 

" _And that one is you, no other will do,_ " John sings into Paul's ear, voice humming softly along with the slow song. Paul exhales out, a breathless giggle as John's own breath tickles against his ear. 

 

He adjusts himself, rests his head on Paul's shoulder instead as he stares up at him, lost in the tangled eyelashes that ascend far longer than even Cynthia's, who puts so much work into trying to lengthen her lashes every day with countless makeup tricks. 

 

John swallows.

 

Even when he tries to feel bad for Cynthia, for the fact he doesn't really feel the way she feels about him, he just can't bring himself to care enough. He can't bring himself to care about anything bad, really, not when he has Paul by his side.

 

John sighs, eyes closing as he burrows his nose into Paul's neck, who simply giggles again and lifts a hand to run it through John's hair, fingers tangling in the waves of curls on top of John's head.

 

The two stop waltzing, instead just stand together.

 

John hums, enjoying the feeling of Paul's fingernails scratching at his scalp.

 

" _I've lost all ambition for worldly acclaim...I just want to be the one you love..._ " John carries on singing, voice lazily hitting the notes, sloppy, uncoordinated. Paul seems to like it anyway, places a delicate kiss to the top of John's head. 

 

His head is lifted, suddenly, eyes opening as Paul's fingers slide under his chin and prop his head up. John stares, squinty eyes widened by Paul's sudden confidence burst. It's always John leading, but right now Paul seems so different...

 

" _And with your admission, that you'd feel the same...I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of, believe me..._ " Paul sings back at him. Then he leans in slowly, keeps John's head propped as his lips press against John's. 

 

A sweet, lingering kiss that John gulps up like a fresh drink of water in a desert, makes a mental note to remember how this feels - how Paul's lips tingle against his own, how his heart beats so fast and his head spins, making him feel like he's going to faint at any second. 

 

When Paul hesitantly pulls away after what feels like just milliseconds, John breathes out, lets it hit against Paul's skin as he groans deep in the back of his throat. Paul simply smiles at him, a wicked twist of his mouth at the knowledge that he can unravel John so easily in his fingertips. 

 

If this was anybody else, John wouldn't be acting like _this_  - like a school girl with her first crush. This is decidedly _not_  how John Lennon works, but he finds that a boy named Paul McCartney has a habit of changing him, thawing the heart in him from out of the ice it has spent so long trapped in. Even if he is just thawing it for himself, John doesn't mind. He can't imagine himself falling for anybody else, now.

 

"It's getting a bit chilly in here," Paul says suddenly. 

 

He moves away, watches John lift his head up on his own with a tut. He wants to whinge and moan, wants to tell Paul that they're perfectly fine here, thanks, listening to this old crooner band together and sloppily waltzing around Julia's kitchen, Paul planting kisses on John's lips - but Paul is already crossing the threshold of the kitchen.

 

"Come on, love..." He smiles, turning his back and walking out of the room, leaving John alone with nothing but his thoughts and the suddenly lonely sounding vocal track. He scurries out of the kitchen, and stands in the doorway of the living room.

 

Paul is sat on the sofa, eyes closed and head thrown back, a blank expression on his face. Feeling slightly unnerved by Paul's change of mood, John reluctantly trails inside and sits down next to Paul.

 

"Are you alright?" John asks finally, his thick brows pulling together in worry. Paul's eyes shoot open, a small smile twitching his lips as he nods his head. John doesn't believe him.

 

"Just thinking..." He says quietly. John hums back, lifting a hand up to rest his head in.

 

"Ey, that's my job," John mock-scolds, which makes Paul chuckle softly. 

 

All of a sudden Paul is adjusting himself, lying down with his head resting in John's lap as his legs spread down the remaining length of the settee. John looks down at him, smiles at the two blinking eyes staring back up at him but he can't concentrate properly because every time that Paul's head shifts slightly, head softly grazing against John's thighs and the start of his groin he has to try with all of his might to extinguish the small pool of arousal gathering in the bottom of his stomach. He _can't_  get a semi right now, he just can't.

 

"Thinking about...?" John prompts, changing the subject and providing himself a much-needed distraction. He breathes a silent sigh of relief as he keeps his gaze on Paul, whose brow pulls together as he bites his bottom lip. John wants to coo at him, but instead he settles for lacing his fingers in Paul's dark hair, gently tracing circles into his scalp. 

 

Paul's mouth opens and closes a few times as he stares up at nothing in particular, avoiding John's eyes. He sighs, a hand reaching up to scratch at his cheek. 

 

"I know what happened between you and George, y'know," Words finally tumbling out of his mouth, John has to take a second to fully process the sentence. But…Wait…

 

“You knew? Then why did you tell my mum he’s still in the band?” John questions, a different kind of frown on his lips. Why had Paul just completely undermined him like that, telling people that George is still a part of the group? Wait – Paul is supposed to be grounded, how can he know?

 

“He came over after it happened-”

 

“-But you’re grounded?” John can’t help but interrupt. Paul’s lips purse as he stares up at John, this…stupid condescending look that he’s giving him, that suggests if he interrupts him again Paul might finally lose his patience. But John isn’t fazed, isn’t scared of Paul in the slightest. Scared of losing him, though. So, he snaps his mouth shut, smiles back in a patronising way and he’s practically _begging_  Paul to just try it, to just make one remark…

 

“I am. But my da doesn’t mind George coming over, knows he’s a good influence…” Just as he finishes saying it, Paul blinks, like he already knows what he’s done. John just laughs, low and menacing.

 

Of course.

 

He stands up, Paul sitting up to watch him as he scrambles to his feet.

 

“John…” Paul starts, reaches his hand out and places it on John’s shoulder as he gets up, but John just shrugs him off.

 

He stands in front of the fireplace, staring at the roaring open flames as he tries his hardest to remain calm.

 

“Not really grounded then, just not allowed to see _me_ ,” John sighs. Is it stupid that he kind of feels like crying? There’s a stinging sensation behind his eyes, but he reaches up and rubs them to try and stop it. God, he’s pathetic.

 

“Yet here I am, seeing you still,” Paul deadpans back to him. When John looks up, looks back to Paul he is met with a stoic face, the younger boy unimpressed by his emotional moment. “Skipping school, which I got smacked for last time, just to spend the day with _you_. John, if I cared what my dad, or George, or anyone else thought I wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” He sounds annoyed, irritated that John’s worked up, but John supposes that what he’s saying must have some truth to it. John doesn’t budge, and Paul’s face doesn’t falter from its agitated expression.

 

“Christ, I wouldn’t have been kissing you twenty minutes ago if I cared what people thought about me or you or _us_ , would I?” He still looks annoyed, but his voice sounds different, like it’s tired. John nods his head reluctantly, agreeing with Paul’s statement. There’s a beat of silence.

 

“Come here then you daft sod…” Soft brown eyes and a shy smile looks so inviting on Paul, John realises, as he slinks way back to the couch and takes a seat next to the younger boy. Paul leans forward, and as John stares at the wall across from him he can feel a pair of eyes burning into the side of his face. Slender fingers suddenly brush at the loose curl on the side of his head, pushing it back up gently. He darts his eyes to Paul, is met with a mischievous grin in return.

 

“And -” Paul starts, continuing to lightly brush at John’s stray hairs with his fingers, head tilted to the side as he concentrates, and maybe pointedly avoids direct eye contact with John. “You can’t kick George out right now. We’ve been writing a song together. And before you start, it’s something for you. So don’t be a mard arse for one second, yeah?” He ignores John scoffing back at him, dropping his fingers from John’s hair and instead trailing them down the side of John’s cheek.

 

God, John would fucking kill him, being so cheeky as to practically overrule John’s word of law. Would. But he’s staring up at John through inviting eyelashes, plump lips and perfectly arched eyebrows that make John feel weak in the knees and dizzy in the head all at once.

 

“I’ll _think_  about it, for a kiss. But he has to say sorry to my face, too…Don’t think your mates will keep getting away with talking to me like that, though,” John’s face falls for a second, a serious expression on his features. If it was anyone else, under any other circumstance, he’d say ‘fuck off’, ‘sling it’ and ‘take your shitty half-finished song with you’, but it’s Paul. Lovely, irresistible Paul and John would be lying if he didn’t say he was also a little bit curious for what this song is, if it’s meant for him.

 

Paul hums back at him, scrunches his face up like he has to think about it. When John simply rolls his eyes back at him, a small giggle tumbles from Paul’s mouth. And then he’s cupping John’s cheeks with his hands, eyes fluttering shut and John feels his inside squeeze like they’re being rung out as his lips press softly against Paul’s own, as Paul lets out a little breath, a small noise of pleasure and content. John smiles into the kiss, a smile that spreads to Paul too and then he’s pulling away from John’s lips and is planting a kiss on the tip of his nose, soft and gentle like butterfly wings tickling against his skin. John giggles back, nuzzles his nose into Paul’s face as the two continue to laugh quietly and simply breathe in the scent of each other. The fire crackles quietly beside them, their faces illuminated in an orange light as they attempt to melt into each other’s skin.

 

John’s still not completely happy with the idea of George being allowed back in, not after the things he said. However, he is happy, in this moment with Paul. With Paul’s laughter bubbling between their lips, seeping into his mind and trapping itself there like an echo. With the smell of Paul – cheap cologne and poorly masked cigarette smoke, with dark brown eyes squeezed shut as his eyelashes tickle against John’s skin. And if he can keep Paul like this, by his side, then the thought of George Harrison remaining a member of The Quarrymen doesn’t seem quite as awful, he thinks.


End file.
